Snapshots: The Twilight 25, Spring 2010
by theladyingrey42
Summary: Snapshots into the lives the Twilight characters. All pairings, all ratings. Canon, AU and AH.
1. All I Ask Of You

**The Twilight 25** is a series of 25 picture prompts for either drabbles or oneshots. The plan is for this little collection to include 25 short, 1-2k word "snapshots" into the lives of Edward, Bella, Jasper and ... well, whoever the hell else I feel like writing about. Expect a variety of pairings and ratings, and plots that include some AU, some canon and some AH. I have no schedule for posting these. It'll just be as the mood / inspiration strikes.

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** keeps me sane.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. And in this case, so does Andrew Lloyd Weber. I play.

And without further ado, I bring you PhantomWard...

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 17 (www [dot] bit [dot] ly/auqKUk)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

Black, rubber-soled shoes are silent on wood floors. Bella passes another black-clad figure and tightly nods, bending low so as not to hit her head on an exposed beam before twisting around a curtain and stepping over a length of rope. With every motion up the little ladder, her body keeps time with the music, the intensity of the bridge waning, and she shares the audience's gasp as the plot turns, a body falling roughly to the floor.

The instant the key changes, she is in place, exactly where she should be, and for twelve glorious bars, she allows herself her one indulgence.

Her one moment as a spectator.

For twelve bars, she listens to _him_.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime... _

Staring down through the metal grating of the platform, she can see him. The stage lights reflect brightly off of the shimmering white of the mask, and sometimes she would swear that his skin shimmers lightly, too.

... _lead me, save me from my solitude... _

His rich baritone wraps around her spine, and for these few, brief moments, she pretends she is the leading lady instead of the stage tech. That she is not invisible. Insignificant.

That when he takes off the mask at the end of the evening, he might _see_ her.

... _say you'll want me with you, here beside you... _

With a sigh, she looks away again, her hand wrapping itself securely around the rope and preparing for her cue. She is early, but she knows that if she allows herself even a few more measures, she will be lost, too caught up in the beauty of his voice and presence to do her job.

And if she loses her job, she'll lose her one connection to him, too.

... _anywhere you go, let me go, too... _

... _Christine, that's all I ask of .... _

One tear slips from her eye, as it always does to hear the lonely longing in his voice when he begs. The darkness sweeps over her, her eyes drifting closed as she imagines this time that instead of the leading lady, she is the heroine. That he really is the Phantom, the monster who both gives in to and transcends his nature in the name of the woman that he loves.

Only in _her_ version of the play, when she rips away the mask and the audience shrieks, she holds her tongue. And instead of screaming, she places both hands on either side of his disfigured face.

And slowly, so tenderly, she kisses him.

The haunting sound of the organ disrupts her revery, her eyes opening to pitch black, her head shaking. She tenses for just a second, waiting for the laugh, soulless and distraught. When it comes, she is ready, and she allows her body to do what it has to, yanking at the rope as the brilliant lights begin to dance. Behind the curtains, she knows it is all in play, that the crystal is shaking, sounds of shattering and screaming erupting.

And then the crash as the enormous prop of the chandelier plummets and falls.

Bella takes three quick, deep breaths, adrenaline spiking after pulling off the big scene, and then she is in motion again. At the base of the ladder, he is standing there, waiting for her to reattach his mask. She knows full well that this should be a makeup artist's job. Or someone else's anyway. That she should not be clambering between sets so quickly and that a transition this important should not be left to chance. But they are short-staffed this week, and when someone suggested she was in the right place at the right time to do the job, she could only shiver and nod.

She shivers again as her small fingers find the bottle of glue, trying to breathe and almost failing as she steps into him, smelling the cool, clean scent of him as she washes the brush over his skin.

And then she makes one tiny mistake. One error that could land them all in dire straights.

She looks into his eyes.

Swimming with gold, they are the most beautiful eyes she has ever seen, and she cannot help but be lost in them. For a full thirty seconds, she is helpless, caught in a gaze that cuts through to the very core of her, revealing secrets and wants and deep desires. And as intense as the stare is, she wonders for a moment if perhaps he might be lost in her, too.

"Bella?"

His voice is a whisper, and she starts, shocked he knows her name and embarrassed to have allowed herself to lose sight of what she is here to do. A cold hand closes around her own, and she feels it all along the line between her stomach and her thighs, before he places the lifeless mask in her palm.

She swallows and nods, resuming her task as she tenderly lifts the mask to his face, lining it up and pressing, shivering yet again as her fingertips trace over the skin near his jaw only to find it hard and cold. The sound of his ragged breathing surprises her as they touch, and it is at that moment that she realizes the only breath she has heard in the entire time they have been so close has been her own.

His hand pulls hers from his jaw, and she freezes when he lifts it to his mouth, kissing softly at the back of her knuckles.

And then he is gone.

The rest of the production flies by in a blur. She moves from one station to the next, performing tasks automatically, and struggling the entire time to push the memory of his lips on her flesh to the back of her mind. But she never quite succeeds.

When the final curtain call arrives at last, she watches as she always does from the wings, applauding politely as actors and actresses surge past. The leads finally begin to make their appearances, Christine and Raoul, and she tries to ignore the flutters of annoyance and of envy, knowing full well that the actors are not responsible for their characters' actions.

The audience erupts when _he_ appears, and she finds herself clapping harder as well. She can rationalize it, because Edward Cullen truly is the best Phantom she's ever seen in ten years of working behind the scenes.

But she also knows it's more than professional admiration that drives the enthusiastic motion of her hands.

Hands that feel the memory of clapping and of ice-cold lips long after the theatre is empty, and she is left lingering there alone.

She does not know exactly why she stays, other than a vague disinterest in going home to her tiny rooms and to the smell of her own lonely nights and days. With a heavy heart, she rechecks ropes and dusts off props, oiling a particularly tricky winch. When she is finally out of tasks to pretend to do, she sighs.

But then, she hears music. Music that aches and soars. Music that is lonelier than that in the score.

And yet which speaks of the same broken heart and the same painful struggle with a world that has turned away from monstrous acts and a monster's face.

With the silent sorts of footfalls she uses in her work, she steps down from the scaffolding to land gently at the level of the stage. Feeling the music in her lungs, she is pulled forward until she can see the long fingers she knows so well dancing over ivory keys, and there she pauses, staring at the profile of his face in silhouette.

It strikes her then that she has never really seen him before. Each time they have met, it has been between scenes, with him in full make-up. It has been quickly and in the dark. And so she has never had the opportunity to really appreciate the man whose voice she fell in love with the first time he opened his mouth to sing.

He opens that warm, rose mouth now, wordless melodies falling out of lungs to intertwine with the quiet tones called forth by his hands, and she is stunned. As if he can hear her racing heart, he turns, his hands still moving, still producing sound. And she is shocked to find that even now his eyes are really gold, his skin really as shimmering and pale as it is when he is costumed.

He is beautiful. And so alone.

Staring deeply into his eyes, she tentatively begins to bridge the distance between them, quiet steps over wooden floorboards pulling her almost magnetically toward the grand piano. Toward him. When she is so close that she thinks she should be able to feel his body heat, he shifts, glancing down at the piano even as he is indicating with his head that she should sit beside him. Scarcely breathing, she does.

"Did you enjoy the show, Bella?"

She does not know if he is asking her opinion of the evening's production, or of his own quiet performance. The private concert she is beginning to wonder if he put on for her alone.

"Beautiful," she whispers, ruing herself for letting so much rapture seep into her voice.

"Yes. Yes, you are."

Unsure why she feels as comfortable as she does with this, she allows herself to lean into him, her breath shuddering when he continues to play on, undisturbed. With her head resting on the solid expanse of his shoulder, she feels the music flowing through her chest, moving only with the light rocking of his arm as it drifts across the keys.

"Why the Phantom?" she asks, even though on some level she already knows. She knows that it would be impossible for a man to sing the way that he does unless he knew the pain of that half existence, of living so much of life in shadow, uncertain and estranged.

"Why not?" He shrugs. "Not all monsters are so easy to pick out, you know. Some lurk much more subtly. Lust more silently. Kill more violently."

"But most of them aren't so tortured by it," she whispers. "Most don't know monstrosity from humanity."

Her hands become bold, moving with only the slightest bit of trembling to place themselves over his, effectively silencing him.

His hands are still cold.

"Christine was a fool," she whispers, her heart falling when his bright gold eyes drift closed, his head shaking slowly no.

"She wasn't. She made the right choice."

She places one still-shaking hand on his cheek, right over the place where she applied the glue, and again he exhales roughly, a little shudder of what she thinks may be pleasure rushing gently through his stony skin.

"I don't care what you've done."

His eyes float open.

"Bella … "

"Edward … "

Faster than she can recognize, his hand is just beneath her chin, tipping her head back gently, and a cold fingertip is brushing across her throat.

"Bella, you should."

"I don't."

For a moment, she's not quite sure which way he is going to go. She watches golden eyes flit between her mouth and her pulse, nostrils flaring with every lush push of life and blood through her delicate form, and in that instant she knows what he is.

She knows why his hands are cold and why his song sounds so alone.

His hand is shaking this time, as he covers the offending reaches of her throat, using the lightest of touches to hide them from his view.

"I trust you," she breathes, commanding his gaze to meet her eyes.

And it is just before his smooth, stone lips meet hers that he whispers, almost silently, "That's all I ask of you."

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**

* * *

A/N:** Yes, yes, I know in the stage production they usually drop the chandelier in the first half, but just pretend the director decided to make some changes to make some extra money off the movie or something ...

Please take a sec and let me know what you think.


	2. Waiting

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** keeps me sane.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally make her characters gay. (In other words, this will be **SLASH**. Don't like, don't read.)

And yes, yes, I know, I'm totes overachieving on the whole "snapshots" concept here...

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 9  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/9BPs2B)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward and Jasper  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

There's nothing to do.

Nothing.

I'm about to go out of my mind with it all, really.

Again and again, I pace the floors, my Chucks making thudding squeaking noises, and each sound echoes harshly in the empty space. Out the window, there's nothing to see except green and trees and the parking lot outside my new apartment building.

But I keep standing beside it all the same. Looking out. Waiting.

Just as I begin to take another lap around the room, nervous energy making my whole body bounce; I think I hear a car door, and I practically jump to look and see. With disappointed eyes, I turn away, though. It's not him.

Still.

When I finally get to the point where I'm even starting to annoy myself with all this pacing and waiting and worrying, I flop down on the one piece of furniture in the room and run my hand over my face. I sink down to lay back against the futon my mom insisted on buying for me, and I'm just about to start tearing my hair out when finally I hear an engine noise I'd recognize anywhere.

My stomach starts doing flip flops as I launch up and over to the door, yanking it open and racing downstairs. I reach the pavement just as he's opening the trunk, and for a minute I simply stop and stare, wondering if it's possible that he's actually gotten more attractive in the months since I've seen him. If his hair always had that perfect golden sheen, and if his biceps were always so … bite-able.

I may actually whimper when he bends over to reach for a box at the very back of the trunk, and I mentally slap myself for it, but it's too late. He stands up straight before turning swiftly, and I just barely manage to pry my eyes away from his perfect ass in time to meet his eyes. He's smirking, though, so if he caught me, I guess he doesn't mind.

God, I hope he doesn't mind.

"Edward!" He smiles even more widely as he greets me, though when I look at him, I can't help feeling like there's a certain something twisting just behind the outer surface of his expression. Putting down the box and leaving his bags still scattered all over the ground, he starts moving toward me, and I have to work to unglue my own sluggish feet from the pavement to walk forward.

It's only as we approach to within touching distance that the nervous bubble that's been sitting in the bottom of my lungs all day starts to rise and expand until it's almost choking me. After so much time spent waiting desperately until I could see him again, it's at this moment that I suddenly realize that I have absolutely no idea what to do now.

Not after the way we parted.

Approaching each other in slow motion, I allow myself one moment to replay the morning we moved out of the dorms last year, remembering the sugar-tart taste of his tongue and the warmth of his hand. I almost moan as my mind sinks even further back to the touches of the night before. To his lips around my cock and the look on his face when he tensed and panted my name and came.

And then I remember the last words we said, my semi deflating as his painful ambivalence echoes in my mind.

"It is what it is, Edward." He'd shrugged. "We had fun. And when we get back in the fall, if there's still something there, then … well, then we'll see what happens."

There's bitterness on my tongue at the memory, because after pining for my roommate for an entire year, 'wait and see' had _not_ been the approach I'd been planning to take. But I'd shuffled and coughed and agreed, pretending it was no big deal he'd suggested not keeping in touch over the summer. "Keeping our options open," he'd said, and I'd numbly nodded.

But now he's here. And he's so close I can _smell_ him. And fuck but he smells good.

Just as I'm about to start having a panic attack over whether or not it would be OK to touch him, time starts moving at the normal speed again, my mind pulling itself away from all this wondering and worrying and thinking, and he's here, holding out his arm. We're hugging, and I can't even help it. I mean to keep the embrace appropriate -- just one of those pleasantly ambiguous three-pats-on-the-back man-hug things -- but before I can stop myself, I have my arms wrapped all the way around him, my nose pressing to the side of his neck, and it's all I can do not to press my lips there, too.

Way too soon, I can feel him pulling back, and my heart falls, because what I really want to do is pull him closer and kiss the hell out of him. Instead I play along, desperately ignoring the way his body makes mine respond and trying so hard to be cool.

But I'm lame. Always have been and always will be.

"It's good to see you, Jasper," I stammer.

"You too, man," he says warmly, his big hand on my shoulder, and I can't help but think that he lets it linger there for just a heartbeat too long before releasing me. Still smiling, Jasper smacks my back lightly and steps away, reducing us to awkward shuffles and uncertain smiles.

A minute or two of silent standing and shifting and rocking pass, and inside of me all the tension of waiting begins to boil. I didn't exactly expect him to pledge undying devotion to me, or to apologize for the obvious mistake of brushing me off last spring.

But then again, I also didn't expect this … blankness.

I didn't expect him to have _nothing_ to say to me.

"Here," I finally manage to stammer out, gesturing to the parking lot, even as my heart clenches and drops. "Let me help you with your stuff."

He nods, and we move back toward his car without speaking, each grabbing something, and together, we climb the single flight of stairs to his apartment, his door the twin to mine.

Waiting for him to find his keys, I smile wryly, remembering how we'd gone back and forth at least a hundred times over whether we should chip in on a two-bedroom or not. Eventually we'd decided to go with this compromise, signing leases on two studios right next door to each other, and as we step inside I am actually relieved that we did. It's better this way, I think to myself, as I grunt and lower the box to the empty floor.

Because if things do work out the way I want them to, it'll be good for us to each have our own space. And if they don't, I think, mentally cringing as I do, then I don't want to have to know or hear. I don't want to see the faces of the other boys he might decide to parade through his room. And his bed.

My heart is clenching painfully, anxiety settling in every bone of my spine as we continue to unload his car, each item making a hollow ringing sound in the empty space. When the last item has been safely deposited, I return to my awkward shuffling, and his body language is closed. Reserved.

I let my eyes traverse one more time from the ringlets of perfect blond curls that frame his face to those eyes that stared so intensely at me as he pulsed onto my tongue last spring , over his chest and abs and down to the long lines of his jeans. I want to say something, to ask or to even just explain, but my mouth dries up, and for all of my intent to clear the air, I simply can't.

And it hits me hard, an impact centered squarely over the apex of my chest, that his silence is probably all he has to say to me. That I'm probably lucky he's using it to put some distance between us instead of coming right out and telling me flatly that he doesn't want me. That maybe he's at least going to spare a little bit of my dignity, and maybe even leave us a shred of a hope for maintaining some semblance of our friendship after he rejects me.

It may be a kindness, this indifference he's wearing toward me.

But it hurts terribly all the same.

"I guess I'll just go," I mutter numbly, the dull throbbing in my chest keeping me from meeting those intense blue eyes as I turn to leave. "I, um, have beer. And a couch and stuff. Later, if you get bored and, like, want some company."

"Yeah, man. That sounds good," he says, and I can hear the restraint in his throat. And I can hear everything he's not telling me.

"OK."

I'm still hovering in the doorway, my feet refusing to listen to me as I tell them to flee and to protect some tiny part of what's left of the heart of me.

"OK," he echoes uncertainly.

A few seconds pass, and my hand finally finds the doorknob, the quiet click of the door closing behind me ringing louder than any other sound. My shoulders sag as I step into my own apartment and into the more comfortable silence that lingers there.

For hours, I just putter around, unpacking what there still is to unpack of my own things. It's good, in its own way, because at least the activity distracts me from thinking, even if half the things I unpack are laced with with some of Jasper's and my history. I'm still feeling restless in spite of everything, and even though I don't want to admit it to myself, on some level I know that I'm still waiting. Every now and then, I even go so far as to go stare out that damn window again, my heart rising in my throat the same way it did this afternoon as I look out at the sight of his car parked next to my own.

Idly, I think to myself that they look good together.

But then again, I always thought the same thing about him and me.

I don't even know how much time passes before I hear the door next to mine opening, and my heart leaps and then crashes as I wait and wait and wait for a knock. But nothing. I can faintly hear the front door to the apartment building open, and I just give in and let my head roll back to thud against the back of the futon, feeling tears prickling but refusing to let them go. I'm just so angry at myself for allowing myself to hope and for thinking the boy I loved could want me.

Thirty seconds later when there actually is a knock on my door, I'm so deep into my own pity party that I almost give myself whiplash as my head jerks up from the back of the couch.

Like the hopeless puppy that I am, I'm on my feet and across the room in a blink of an eye, throwing the door open before whoever it is can even stop knocking. When I see that it's Jasper, and that he's holding a pizza delivery box in the one hand that isn't still half held up as if to knock, I feel like a royal asshole. The look on my face must betray that immediately, because the uncertain expression on his face quickly morphs to one of amusement as he stares at me.

"So, um, I got hungry," he says, mischief dancing in his eyes. "And I heard you had beer?"

I nod and step aside, leaving him just barely enough room to get by, which I only recognize when his hip brushes slightly against my thigh. I'm numb as he settles down on the end of my futon, placing the pizza box on the floor and digging right in. It's half pepperoni and half supreme. Like always. Because I can't stand olives and onions, and after a year of living together, he knows how to accommodate me.

It probably makes me a huge sap, but the fact that he still remembers this sort of of touches me, and I have to chuckle that I'm so keyed up that I can get emotional over pizza now.

I grab a couple beers for each of us and join him, taking care to sit all the way at the other end and plenty far away from him. We eat in what can finally be called a comfortable silence for a while, but I still can't help feeling like there's all this stuff brewing and that we're basically being cowards for leaving it all unsaid. I hazard a glance at him, and he looks really deep in thought, and a little bit on edge. Nervous even. But I can't imagine why on earth Jasper would be nervous around me.

After we've all but demolished the pizza, we each lean back. I drain my beer and open up my second, playing with the top of the bottle with my mouth. The fidgety motion betrays my own anxiety, and while I can't quite bring myself to look at him, I'm suddenly incredibly sure he's looking at me.

But I'm still shocked when he sort of groans.

I'm even more so when he plunks his bottle down on the floor near the leg of the futon and turns to me. In my peripheral vision, I can see him running a hand through his hair, and I can almost taste the air when he murmurs an obscenity under his breath.

"Look, Edward," he finally says, an edge of frustration creeping into the tone of his voice. His head is resting on his hand, his elbow propped on his knee, and when I turn to look up at him, he's staring really intently at me. "I, um … I'm sorry."

My heart is crashing.

I have to look away, my head spinning, and _fuck_. It _hurts_.

"S'okay," I mumble, hoping he will get that I get it and just go the fuck away.

Even though I want him to stay.

"No, Edward. It's not OK." He hesitates, and then he grabs my hand, and the contrast of pleasure at his touch and pain at his rejection is just staggering. "It's not OK. I was a dick last spring."

He regrets it.

It was the best night of my life and he regrets it.

_Fuck._

"I shouldn't - I shouldn't have …"

"Seriously, it's OK. Just - just leave it, Jazz," I hiss.

"It's not fucking OK!" he snaps, tearing his hand from mine. It's a palpable loss, and I feel it everywhere, but especially in the thundering hole of my heart. "Would you just give me a minute? Fuck, Edward."

"Fine." I huff and slump back against the couch, seething and wanting to crawl under it and feeling my fingernails digging angry crescents into my palm.

"Why can't I just fucking say this?" he whispers, shaking his head, and his hands are both buried in the bright mop of his hair.

My heart pangs to realize that, even distressed, he looks so damn good.

"I shouldn't … I shouldn't have left things that way I did," he finally manages. His voice sounds twisted and strained. "I didn't know - I didn't mean - Just - " He gulps and seems to be trying to compose himself. "I mean, look, when I got back today, I thought I could just tell you, but you've been so, like, distant, man. Like you're afraid of me or something. And I - I think I get it. I shouldn't have left stuff that way."

I really don't have any idea what he's talking about, and it's starting to piss me off, annoyance mixing with all that hurt. I'm just about to tell him to spit it out already, when he finally blurts, "I was an asshole to leave you thinking I didn't want this."

All the air rushes out of my lungs at once, a brilliant flash of diamond-like hope shining brightly at the bottom of the chasm of hurt that I had dug for myself. Dumbfounded, I just stare, my gaze focusing singularly on the lush pout of his mouth that is still puckering as if about to speak.

His eyes fall, though. And so quietly, almost shyly, he whispers, "I was scared, Edward. But I should have told you. Because I did." He shakes his head as if to correct himself. "Do. I do. Want this. You."

At that, our eyes finally meet, and I'm drowning. Just drowning. And I'm sure I must have misheard.

"You - you do?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Edward, I do." There's that sly smile of a smirk on his lips.

"You want..."

"You. I want you. If you still want me."

I'm lost and transfixed and I'm not entirely sure if I can breathe. I'm even less sure when I hear myself squeak, "Really?"

"Really."

"Wow."

There's silence again between us, even as his eyes are screaming at me. I don't even register that I have yet to actually respond to his declaration until his throat bobs and he mumbles my name.

"Edward?"

"Yes," I whisper numbly, and I feel him shift toward me.

"Yes?"

"Yes. I - I still want you."

He's on me faster than I would have thought possible, all the distance that we have somehow managed to put between ourselves evaporating beneath the withering heat that is his skin on my skin. His denim-clad thigh is pressed up against mine, my back thrown against the arm of the futon as our chests collide, his hand rough and warm at my jaw as he tilts my face up, demanding urgently that I look at him. For a second, he hovers there, warm blue eyes intense and his breath warm and intoxicating over my skin, a heated web of sensation spreading out from every place where his fingertips press against my skin. And then, so slowly, he closes in, our noses brushing and my lungs and body frozen.

The kiss, when it finally happens, is a rush of clashing teeth and lips, a biting sensation and a growl erupting from my throat as I finally feel like I can _breathe_ again. It only takes two sweeping motions of Jasper's mouth against mine before I am thawing, responding, kissing back with all the relief that has lain buried under so much fear of regret and retreat. Our tongues tangle, hot and wet, and the taste of his mouth is exactly as I remember it, a rush of memories mingling with the feel of his body, real and hard and pressed against me as I struggle to believe this is happening. I fight to breathe as my mouth opens even more to the rough motion of his lips, my hand grasping hard at the back of his neck, and I hiss when his teeth tease my tongue.

He pulls back roughly after just a minute, his darkened eyes locking with mine as he fists my shirt and whispers breathlessly against my mouth, "Been wanting to do that for months."

"Fuck." I pull his face back toward mine, my hand cupping the back of his head and tangling with the lushness of his hair. "Me, too," I mumble before taking his bottom lip between my teeth. I twist myself to try to pull him more on top of me because I am desperate to feel all of him, feeling mad for his touch after a long, hot summer with no one's hands on my body except my own.

He is hard and pliable at the same time, following me as I lie back on the futon, one knee settling between my parted ones as I pull his hips down to meet me. We both make rough noises against the other's lungs when we can finally feel each other, and I want him so badly – in my hand and in my mouth and in my body.

But more than anything else, I want him here. Kissing me and talking to me.

"Don't wanna fuck this up," I mutter, tearing my lips away from his to suck softly at the stubbled edge of his chin. There's still pain at the edges of my chest as I admit, my voice accusing and low, "I missed you."

I regret saying it almost immediately, so without even giving him time to respond, I try to distract him. With a rough, wet hum, I push my lips across his face, scraping my teeth over the edges of his jaw and to the place on his neck that I remember made him groan the last time he let me touch him like this. It doesn't disappoint, the long, sex-laced sound of his pleasure giving way to a rasping whisper, his breath hot beside my ear as he pushes his hips hard against mine.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs before sucking my earlobe between his lips. "I should - I should have called you. Talked to you. Told you. I knew I was wrong the minute you were gone."

I feel his hand dipping under my shirt, the warmth of it so good against my skin as we trade back and forth a series of mumbled verbal caresses, my uncertainty and his reassurances. All I can hear is his voice as it echoes in my ear, "God, I want this with you."

"Yes," I moan before his mouth covers mine once more, our hips rocking, and my arousal so hard and needy. I grunt as he kisses me, and I'm desperate because it's been months, and because it's _Jasper_ and he's finally on top of me.

Gripping feverishly, our hands find more and more skin as shirts are pulled over heads, mouths moving to places that haven't been seen in so long, his fingers blazing as they set my flesh on fire. When his palm brushes across my aching erection through my jeans, I let out something halfway between a whimper and a scream, deft fingers moving to buttons, releasing the pressure, but still nothing is enough.

"Touch me," I plead, and I know it sounds too needy, but it's been so long that I feel like I have to have some reminder that this was real. That it still is.

He rubs me hard through my boxers and I bite down reflexively, feeling the perfect skin of his neck between my teeth, washing my tongue over the indentations there before sucking slowly. Instead of making him angry, he seems to be even more turned on by my marking him, his hips grinding harder against my thigh before he reaches beneath the fabric to close his hot hand around me, and nothing has felt so good in so long.

"I'll do more than that," he says in a gruff whisper against my skin, and then his warmth is moving, lips sucking their way down my chest. When he bites my hip bone, I almost leap up off the mattress, but his hands pin me, pushing down on my chest and hip and pulling my jeans and boxers off of me, leaving me naked and hard before him. I gasp as his fist curls back around the base, long, slow strokes moving up and down over the line of me, and then the searing, wet feel of his breath before he opens his mouth to envelop just the tip.

"God, yes." He sucks a little bit more of me down, his tongue swirling and dipping into the slit while his hands move over my balls, and lower, until in my head I'm pleading. As if he hears, he pulls his mouth off my cock for two long strokes of his hand while he puts two of his fingers between his own lips, wetting them for me. By the time I'm lost in the perfect heat of his mouth again, he's pushing against me, the sure feel of his finger gently probing. There's a stretch and a burn to it because no one's touched my ass since the moment I woke up all those months ago and realized he was the only one I wanted to have inside me.

Needing more, I reach out blindly to dig around under the couch, my hand finally closing around a bottle of lube I left there after jerking off the night before. I clear my throat almost shyly before passing it to him, and the sight of him looking up at me with my cock still in his mouth and his finger in my ass is almost too much as I shudder and groan. There's an absence in my body when he pulls away, but then he's back, pushing harder now that he's all slick, another finger stretching me and there's pressure against that perfect place, my eyes rolling back as I start to struggle not to come.

Because while being in his mouth feels perfect, it's something I've felt before. And the last time, it was an experience marked by fear and uncertainty.

I don't want to feel uncertain anymore.

"Jasper," I pant, all my will bent on lasting long enough to ask. When he doesn't respond, his mouth just closing even tighter around me, I beg again, my hands tangling in his hair to pull him off of me. "Jasper."

He finally looks up, my cock falling from his mouth with a wet sound, and the cold air on my still aching arousal almost takes my breath away as I try to breathe in deeply.

I pull him up to me, emptiness echoing through my body again as his hand slips away. When we kiss, he tastes just a little muskier, and I groan at this further evidence that he's been tasting me.

"Has there … been anyone else?" I pant, kissing my way to his ear. My whole body tenses, and I thank God when he doesn't make me wait, his head shaking fiercely.

"No. Not all summer. Just wanted you."

I wince against the sheer force of my need, his hardness pressing against me through his jeans. "Want you," I finally manage as I pull him back for another kiss. "All of you."

"Yes," he moans, but I can already feel him starting to kiss his way back down my body.

"No, Jasper." I catch his head, my finger snagging on curls. "I _want _you." His eyes darken, but he seems wary, and I make myself speak. "Inside me."

"Fuck," he curses, and his head falls to my chest, biting and kissing and stalling. Not willing to just sit back and wait, I reach for the button of his jeans, managing to undo them before I slip my hand beneath the fabric to close around the searing length of him, the tip damp and sticky against my wrist as he groans.

"You're sure?" he finally mumbles, breathing hard as I take another long stroke at him, and I nod.

Together we work the rest of his clothes off until we are together, naked on my virgin futon, and the magnitude of what is happening rushes over me. I'm reeling, letting myself be overwhelmed by sensation when he sinks his mouth back over me, pushing his fingers more thickly into me, stretching me, and we both know now that it is so my body will be able to accept him when he finally pushes into me.

His breath is warm on my hip when he looks up, blue-grey eyes focused intently on mine as he asks me if I'm ready.

"Yes," I moan. _So ready._

He licks and sucks his way back up my body, wiping his hands on a napkin one of us left on the floor. I don't even know where the condom came from when he rips it open, rolling it down over his length, but then he's on top of me again, his sheathed cock pressing against mine.

"Like this?" he whispers, lips closing erotically around the shell of my ear.

It's that question that almost breaks me, knowing we are really about to do this, in exactly the position I fantasized about so many times, jerking off in my bed in our room and feeling enveloped by the smell of him.

"Just like this." I fumble for the bottle he set back down on the floor, squeezing more lube into my palm before running it over the length of him, reveling in the long groan as I twist my thumb over the head through the condom.

Still holding onto the base, I shift my hips and bring my knees up on either side of him until I can tug to line the head of his cock up with my entrance. I watch and feel as so slowly, he starts to sink into me, a long, low moan falling out of his mouth with every inch as I try to relax my body.

"Edward," he groans, willing my eyes up to meet his, trained as intently as they are on me. Our gazes lock as he pushes, his hips finally meeting the backs of my thighs, and my heart is pounding, need and lust and connection, and in this moment, as ever, I am his.

I am so, so his.

There's something passing back and forth between us as he slides his hips back, his cock retreating and then pushing back once more, pressing with each thrust against the part of me that makes me want to fall to pieces, and I am nothing but feeling. Anything outside of this moment -- outside of these few square feet where Jasper is holding me, touching me, fucking me -- is lost, blackness filling my vision as he grunts and thrusts, and I have never felt so complete.

"God, Edward," he pants, his forehead falling to my own, our eyes still connected as he pushes harder and harder, my body so full, and I almost pass out, prickles of yet more blackness dashing across my open eyes when his hand reaches between us to close around me. "Wanna come, Edward. Wanna come inside you."

"Yes," I whisper, even though it feels like a scream. With every motion of his hot flesh inside me and every twist of his wrist, I float higher, surrounded and surrounding.

"Please." He kisses me, wet lips hovering over my own as I fight to breathe. "Need to feel you come around me."

A long moan starts in the bottom of my lungs, circling higher and higher until two thrusts later I shatter, exploding outward, hot and sticky over my stomach, my body clenching around his as he keeps pounding into me. I am nothing but pleasure, perfect completion, white hot, and the feeling of his body releasing into me, his come spilling into the condom even as it is sheathed inside of me. I watch enraptured as his mouth twists, my name perfect and hanging on air that is suddenly still.

And then there is nothing. Nothing but the feel of his body blanketing me, his erection still inside me, his breath in my ear. For a long minute, we lay just like that, my tense arms melting to surround him.

But nothing perfect ever lasts forever.

With a groan, Jasper slides himself out, pressing one kiss to my sweaty forehead before striding confidently to my bathroom. I'm still reeling, lying alone and naked on my only piece of furniture, my ass sore and my mind on overdrive. For a long moment, I let all of the fears that had haunted me before he touched me creep back into my spine, a cold draft rushing over my skin and forcing me into all but a panic.

It's only the sight of him, still naked and returning back to my arms that calms me, and I let out a long, low exhale when he sits beside me, cleaning me up with gentle, silent brushes of a warm washcloth over my skin. The lack of talking worries me, of course, but it feels different this time, vulnerable and bare as we both are right now. When all the evidence of our coupling has been washed away, he drops the washcloth on the discarded pizza box and settles himself alongside me, our bodies matching up, toes and hips and lips, and I shiver at the warmth of his arm draping across my side.

"Hey," he whispers before pressing a soft kiss to my lips. I smile in spite of myself.

"Hey."

For a couple minutes we bask and kiss and touch, but he pulls back eventually with a frown. I try to smooth the lines of it away, tracing a fingertip between his eyes and near the corners of his lips, but he closes his hand around mine, kissing it and holding it against his chest.

"I really am sorry," he finally breathes.

"I know," I sigh, before bending to kiss his wrist. "Do you mind telling me what happened, though? It just ... it ... I thought I'd fucked up."

He shakes his head fiercely, cutting me off. "You were perfect. I just ... I woke up, you know, after and had this total freakout. I can't even explain it, other than I'd wanted you for a long time and we were so close, and I'd never felt that way before. It terrified me. I thought some distance would make it better, but it didn't. It just made me miss you."

I suck in air, my chest filling, and all of it tastes like him. "So we ... are we..."

"I'd like to be with you." His eyes hold mine as he speaks, his hand that isn't holding mine playing gently with my hair. "And only you. If that's what you want."

All I can do is nod and croak, "OK."

It's more than I expected and exactly what I want.

We lapse back into an easy silence, tracing idly over skin, until eventually he yawns. I laugh a little, nudging him, and we get up to turn the futon back into a bed before lying back down. He doesn't ask to stay and I don't tell him to. Instead we just lie down, our bodies wrapping around each other beneath a thin sheet until he quietly drifts off to sleep against my chest.

And it's there, in a space that felt so empty just a few short hours ago, that I finally and truly feel at home.

.

.

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* * *

**A/N**: Um, yeah. No idea where that came from.

Reviews make me happy...


	3. Dear Bella

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** keeps me sane.

Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally fill in the gaps she left...

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 5  
( www[dot]bit[dot]ly/cX4oak )  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward and Bella  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

September 17

Dear Bella,

If you believed I didn't want you, then did you ever really know me at all?

* * *

September 18

Dear Bella,

Why didn't you fight?

* * *

September 19,

Dear Bella,

I wonder sometimes if you ever loved me the way that I love you.

If human hearts are strong enough to feel as much as dead ones do.

If someday, when yours has changed and mine has stayed the same – lovesick and lost for you after all these years -- if you will remember what it looked like to stare into the face of a liar and to let him crush his own heart beneath his heel.

* * *

September 26

Dear Bella,

I picture your face sometimes, imagining I can dream. If I could, I would dream of you.

I see the way it looked when I told you I didn't want you. I can replay it over and over, agonizing over the details of your glazed eyes. I watch how your chin quivered, and how, at first, you didn't seem to understand.

And then how you started to shake.

I can still hear your crying as you followed me.

By turns, it both breaks my frozen heart and strengthens my resolve to keep it locked away.

It breaks me because I can see your face clearly now, and I can see that you didn't fight because I broke you, too.

It strengthens my resolve because only a monster could have done that to you.

* * *

October 1

Dear Bella,

I promised you that you would never see me again.

Why can't I stop seeing you?

* * *

October 2

Dear Bella,

Why did I think I could leave?

* * *

October 4

Dear Bella,

I'm mad without you. Utterly mad.

My family doesn't know what to do with me. At first Alice tried, but her visions get twisty and strange, and even I can barely see through the static as they change in my wake. They are dreams of life and death, yours and mine. Red eyes and strangers in flowing red robes. Water. With every step toward me they shift in less and less happy directions, my skeletal but still-animated remains roaming an earth that no longer knows your name.

They are dreams of love. Sometimes. Dreams of the moment when I will let the agony win and run halfway across the continent to beg for the solace of your arms.

They are dreams of me. Here. Alone.

When I beg her to make them stop, she tells me I need to make a choice.

I frown and tell her I need something to _do_.

* * *

October 10

Dear Bella,

I write letters to you in my head as I drive. But I never stop to actually write them down.

* * *

October 12

Dear Bella,

When I do put these thoughts to paper it makes the hole you left in my chest seem less ragged and torn.

I ball up nearly every letter that I write to you, though. I do not deserve the solace that they bring.

* * *

October 15

Dear Bella,

When I write to you I feel like I can hear you. I imagine the letters you would write in return, were this just an idle parting, a separation with an end date, and that fantasy makes another hour pass less slowly.

But you will never read these letters.

I will never send them.

But truly, they are all I have.

* * *

November 7

Dear Bella,

The desert smells like you. The scent of your hair when you first arrived. It has since been muted by softer, greener things, as you too have become more soft.

Did you become more soft for me?

Every rock and every cactus reminds me of your kindness and your room, the brown you loved and the plants that you carried to our tiny corner of the earth. I lie in the sand at night and breathe it in and imagine I am lying by your side again, watching your chest's sleepy rhythm, waiting for the creeping sun to warm my body like your breath and your hand.

* * *

November 12

Dear Bella,

I wonder if I would have found her already if she hadn't been my last connection to you.

* * *

November 20

Dear Bella,

Did you know that vampires can't cry? No matter how hard they try?

* * *

November 30

Dear Bella,

I wonder what you look like now. If you've changed as much in the past month as you did in your first months in Forks.

If you've blossomed as much in this time as you did then.

I wonder if my family and I were keeping you from blossoming as much as you would have if I had only been capable of staying away. Keeping you always the same, one foot in this world and one foot in your own.

I wonder if you're better now. Happier. If Mike Newton ever made his move and if you found out what it's like to be normal. To be with a boy who can eat with you and sleep beside you and be with you in the sunshine.

A boy who can touch you.

I wonder what you feel like.

If your skin is soft … everywhere.

If your touch on my body would feel as warm as your mouth on my mouth.

I wonder what it would have been like to be touched.

I wonder if you would have even wanted that.

More than anything, I just wonder how you are, though.

I hope you're happy.

Happy enough for us both.

* * *

December 1

Dear Bella,

I missed Thanksgiving.

But even without you, I am thankful for you.

Even though I can scarcely move without being reminded of what my empty hands can no longer touch, and scarcely talk without remembering your voice, I am thankful for months that felt like something after a century where I felt nothing at all.

* * *

December 25

Dear Bella,

Jewelry.

I would have gotten you jewelry for Christmas.

I would have placed a sapphire necklace in a stocking, and when you woke, I would have placed it around your throat. And then I would have kissed you, and your lips would have made my dead skin feel alive.

And that would have been the greatest gift of all.

* * *

January 1

Dear Bella,

They ring in the New Year in the square below, and it is with hope and it is with joy.

My only hope is that joy has found you, too.

* * *

January 31

Dear Bella,

I miss you.

* * *

February 16

Dear Bella,

I love you.

* * *

February 27

Dear Bella,

Voices.

So many voices.

And none of them yours.

I could never hear yours.

* * *

March 18

Dear Bella,

You would have loved Rio's heat.

Maybe under this sun, you could have withstood my touch without shivering.

Your shivers always felt to me like pain.

* * *

March 19

Dear Bella,

She isn't here.

I don't know where she's gone.

I failed you.

Again.

* * *

April 10

Dear Bella,

If I drove all night I could be to your house in two days.

If I begged, would you have me?

If I tried to cry, would you at least look at me?

If I told you I loved you, would you touch me?

* * *

April 23

Dear Bella,

What good is foresight when you are powerless to stop anything?

What good is omniscience when in the end you know nothing?

All I know is that Rosalie's voice will haunt me until then end of my days, and that your father is at a funeral.

And that I never got to see you again.

Why?

Please Bella, tell me why.

Please.

Bella, why would you? How could you?

Why?

* * *

April 24

Dear Bella,

Please tell me it wasn't because of me. I am not to self-deluded as to think it could be.

But still, please tell me you didn't jump for me.

* * *

April 25

Dear Bella,

I can't follow you where you go.

But I can't stay in this world without you.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

April 27

Dear Bella,

You saved me.

In every possible way.

You saved me.

* * *

April 28

Dear Bella,

I am ashamed to say that I ever questioned your living heart, to wonder if it was the equal to my dead one.

Your heart is generous and beautiful and strong.

Like you.

And it is so much stronger than mine.

* * *

~ o ~

* * *

My hands actually trembled as I replaced the cap on my pen, re-reading the words that couldn't even begin to explain my reverence for the woman who slept across the room from me.

I hazarded a glance over at her then, cringing again to see the troubled lines on her face and the tight fists of her hands. Positively itching to return to her, I folded the letter with the sorts of quick motions she wouldn't even have been able to see, before withdrawing the stack of letters from my pocket. With careful fingers, I pulled back on the ribbon that held together all the words I had never sent to her over the course of these barren months. It was with a sighing smile that I slipped this one last addition in amidst the others. These final words that I could not speak to her directly.

But which someday I would show her.

I knew that now. Finally safe and whole again in the sanctuary of her room, I knew that no act of fate or my own duplicity could part me from her again. That we would spend long years entwining lives and hearts and fingers. And that at some point, somewhere in our future, I would show her all the words my heart had longed to tell her.

Hoping that somehow they would finally make her see.

I tucked the stack of them back into my pocket before draping the jacket over the back of her chair. The need I felt now to touch her and to be with her was so strong it all but consumed me, the ache I had felt in those wasted months alone echoing in all the reaches of my chest with every inch that separated us.

Taking care not to disturb the bed, I finally laid down beside her, the heat of her body warming me even through so many layers of covers.

But then she had always been able to warm me.

Even in her sleep, Bella sensed me, and I watched with dry tears threatening my eyes as she shifted closer, pressing her face into my chest as I let an arm wrap around her shoulder. With the gentlest touch I could manage, I stroked a single finger over the lines across her brow, watching with a sense of something easing in the tensest parts of my chest as her soft hands unfurled, her expression shifting back to one of peace.

I could swear my dead heart almost beat, I was so nearly overcome, everything in me glowing to watch her soft body relaxing into me. In spite of everything I had done, all the ways my lies had betrayed her, even in her sleep my Bella still trusted me.

And in her waking hours, she still loved me.

Pulling her in even closer, I shifted to lie on my back, my nose nestling into the soft down of her hair, the very burn of her scent across my throat serving as proof that she was here. That she was real.

And that she was still mine.

With the most careful of caresses, I slowly traced the long line from her neck down over her shoulders and back repeatedly, sighing against her temple as I closed my eyes. And all over again I resolved to be the man who deserved to have her here with me.

And it was with that resolve firmly in my mind that I began to tell her again of our story. It was a story of devotion and protection, and of the greatest mistake I had ever made. It was a story of need and of loss and regret.

And love. Above all else, it was a story about love.

It began with me whispering, so softly in her ear the very words I had addressed to her so many times with a pen, wishing only that I could speak them out loud.

It began with me breathing, simply, "Dear Bella."


	4. Patience

Extra special thanks to **SorceressCirce **for pinch-hit beta-ing this one for me, and to **bmango **for pre-reading.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. As, apparently, do Edward and Carlisle. (**Warning:** while this is mostly about friendship, it is slash. Don't like, don't read.)

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 1  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/cAb9Vs)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward and Carlisle  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

His fingers teased the pawn over and over again, the smooth nail of his thumb making a methodical map of it with every pass.

_Methodical_, I thought with a sigh. Every single thing about Carlisle Cullen was just that. Methodical.

His thoughts echoed the motion of his hand, golden eyes tracing every possibility, every secret that could be hidden inside the silent pieces as they slid across the board. He didn't think about just one move, though. By turns, he thought about _every_ move, sometimes five or six layers deep, his web of thoughts a branching tree, and I found myself staggered sometimes at all the complexities his mind could find in bishops and rooks and queens.

At other times, I was simply bored to tears.

Not that I could cry.

"Honestly, Carlisle," I finally exhaled in a rush, the edge of my fist leaving a dent in the table as wood and dead flesh collided.

Unperturbed, he looked up at me with one eyebrow cocked, still rolling the little white piece between his forefinger and his thumb. When he spoke, his voice was just as calm and considered as ever. "Something bothering you, Edward?"

I shoved myself away from the table with a low huff, pacing back and forth as I fought not to let his nonchalance push me. It was easier to do, being able to hear his thoughts, of course. While their substance had not changed -- the long, careful line of them still seemingly focused solely on the black and white squares spread out before him -- the tenor of them was subtly shifted, betraying that he was affected by my outburst after all.

Carlisle had rarely spoken to me openly about the loneliness he had known over the past centuries, but I had heard his idle recollections of it more times than I could count. Such memories were always tempered by overtones of relief and images of my now-pale hand beside his, my voice repeating in his mind with a rosy hue of affection.

Now, however, his thoughts were colored by something nervous and unsure, ponderings of strategy distracted by worry. And in the background of all his thoughts was the image of me, pacing relentlessly in agitation and irritation.

Like I was right now.

On some level I felt guilty, but the past few weeks, I had felt like I was going crazy. The scream of voices surrounding us in London had almost been the end of me, not to mention the constant foot traffic of lush, beating hearts passing our door. But at least there, we'd had things to do. Our retirement to the country, while better for the sake of opportunities for hunting and solitude, had brought with it an isolation that had proven more difficult to handle than I had anticipated. Trapped in the small house with just Carlisle for company, I'd had no choice but to dwell on all the things about him that annoyed me, the accumulation of all his little quirks and idiosyncrasies making me lose sight of the fact that I genuinely liked the man.

And that sometimes that liking threatened to bloom into something more.

It was as I was making the third lap of the tiny room in less than a minute that my eyes alit upon the little glimmer of glass and sand sitting on one of the shelves with Carlisle's medical books. Feeling inspired, I grabbed it, returning back at the table where Carlisle was still staring at a particularly fascinating pawn. I plunked it down on the soft wood right beside the board, again with more force than was really needed.

"Edward?" he asked questioningly, his mind's eye picturing the little glass timer with confusion.

As he watched, I carefully pried the top of the device off, emptying all but a small handful of grains of sand. Making the calculations quickly, I estimated that it was just enough for about a minute. I replaced the top as neatly as I could, deciding that the seal was good enough for my purposes, before I held it up in front of Carlisle's eyes. Understanding dawned in his thoughts, along with that same rosy warmth of relief.

_He hasn't completely lost patience with me, then. Thank God._

I rolled my eyes. "No, not _completely_," I answered aloud. "But honestly, Carlisle, just because we live forever doesn't mean _every_ game of chess needs to last that long."

He chuckled softly, my face appearing once more in his mind, and again it was colored with affection, my turn of phrase apparently amusing him. The sight threatened to warm the cold cavity of my chest for just a moment before I possessed myself, turning the timer over and cocking an eyebrow at him. In his thoughts, the threat of the falling grains and the black and white pieces began to take up equal residence with the lingering image of my smile. And it made the sides of my mouth turn up all the more broadly.

Just as I was beginning to let my own thoughts wander into more dangerous territory, Carlisle finally settled upon an idea, his hand moving in a white flash to inch forward with his queen before darting over to upend the sandglass. I considered quickly, pushing through my own series of calculations and possibilities with the kind of speed that suited a vampire, I thought to myself, reversing the timer just as the first grains were about to land.

With that arrogant move, a challenge was seemingly set, and I watched as a competitive edge began to push at and shape his plans. He still let the timer all but deplete itself before he finalized his decision, but for Carlisle, that was all but a minor miracle, and I found myself suddenly excited about the game for the first time in the years that we had been playing it.

Back and forth we traded, our turns moving faster and faster until my own considerations about what action to take next began to eclipse the constant company of Carlisle's, a calm haze beginning to settle over my mind, and I breathed out a contented exhale. In the past couple of years, I had finally begun to come to terms with the incessant hum in my head, and I now lived for nearly-quiet moments like this when I knew something akin to peace.

_He's so beautiful when he smiles._

All at once I was pulled out of my mental cocoon, the unveiled thought piercing through it as my head whipped up from the board to take in Carlisle's own soft smile. He registered the track his thoughts had taken at just about the same moment I had, the gentle expression on his face falling all at once to one of surprise and then terror.

It was only in that moment that I realized just how free the last thought had sounded. In idle moments, I had noticed Carlisle's internal monologue becoming more guarded over the last couple of years, but I had always chalked it up to a general wish for privacy. Now, with the rush of emotion bubbling up through his mind, I suddenly saw it for what it was.

I saw what he had been hiding from me.

"Carlisle," I breathed as we both stood, the game forgotten, and all I could hear was the gentle fall of sand slipping through the stricture in the glass.

"Edward, I - it's nothing - I - "

So many moments flashed through my mind at once until I didn't know which were mine and which were his. Moments of tenderness and quiet companionship, our two lithe frames settled back in twin chairs, reading, even as our eyes occasionally darted to the hidden face of the other. Heated exchanges, long debates on the merits of various medical discoveries and theories, our voices rising, and a vision of my own face, almost flushed with excitement for all that it was still deathly pale. The implicit sensuality of our shared hunt, his body and mine each making mirrored motions as we stalked our pray, falling upon deeply beating vessels, biting, drinking, letting our mouths fill with _life_.

And then there was one image. A vision of my face I had never before seen, only it wasn't _my_ face anymore. It was thin and sweaty, flushed, with glazed, green eyes looking upward from a bed I was sure I had never really known.

I heard his voice in my mind's ears, the one word, "Beautiful," before the vision shrank, eyelids closing over it, and then the memory of the most lush and fragrant blood.

My own.

I closed my eyes to remember the feeling of Carlisle's mouth in that instant, and even through the fever it had been a potent thing, the pleasure of such an embrace only marred by the immediate onset of pain. Terrible pain, and then the three long days of agony as I suffered through my change.

And yet, in all that agony, I had always felt myself surrounded by an aura of safety, dim thoughts filtering through the haze as the man who would soon awaken me to this unlife prayed for an easing of my suffering.

In the memory and in reality, I opened my eyes.

And there he was. My one constant through all these years. My companion and creator.

My Carlisle.

"Carlisle," I whispered again, and for the first time, I made no effort to rein in the warm feelings welling up in me, the way I had always craved the kind of intimacy that in my mortal life I had never had the chance to know, and that in this one I had always been too frightened to pursue.

His anxious, golden eyes met mine then, so much vulnerability painted on features made of stone, and I cursed myself. Peering into his mind, I _knew_. Already, I knew. And yet here I had left him, silent and all but in the dark, still waiting to see what would result of his slip in mental discipline.

I couldn't simply think my affection. I had to show him.

Just as the final grain of sand filtered softly to the bottom of the glass, I pushed gently at the table, sliding it out of the way, until finally there was nothing between me and the man who had made me and cared for me. Minding my strength, and ever so slightly shaking, I closed even that small space that remained, until finally I stood before him.

"It's just the same," I finally breathed, my hand reaching up to touch gently at what felt like the only face I had ever known. "You can't hear it, but my thoughts are just the same."

Gold eyes softened and widened at the same time, another stone hand joining mine.

I saw the vision before it happened. Saw my own eyelids closing, my face tilting, a tongue sliding over frozen lips. And I made it happen just that way. Still holding softly to the smooth skin of his face, I shifted in just the manner he had imagined before pressing my mouth to his.

Simultaneously, we each sighed, our thoughts the same, as together, our minds each whispered,

_My first kiss. _

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* * *

**A/N:** Reviews are love.


	5. Um, yeah

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** keeps me sane.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally make her characters fluffy, angsty, silly barely-teens.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 21  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/dlVPih)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

My face is hot and probably all splotchy and gross. Not that anybody cares. I hazard one more look behind me to make sure nobody's following even as I keep stumbling forward, my eyes blurry and my feet constantly on the verge of tripping over roots or leaves or whatever, and it's so unfair.

It's not fair that I never get invited to parties in the first place. And it's even more unfair that the one time I do, I get so distracted by stupid Edward Cullen that I don't even notice Tyler Asshole Crowley sneaking up on me to throw water on me. It's not fair that I don't really have boobs yet and that I didn't think to wear a bra – not even the crappy training bra Renee made me buy -- and it's really really really not fair that everybody knows that now.

In fact, _nothing_ is fair. Absolutely nothing at all.

With that thought, the waterworks really open up and I decide to just give in to them already. I find a little not-too-disgusting patch of ground amidst all the trees and leaves and yucky stuff and plunk down, my soaked back to the scratchy bark, and I just sob. It's one of those good cries. The sort of cry that leaves you feeling like you're falling apart and coming together all at the same time and like if you don't stop soon, you're going to choke or puke. I don't do either, thank God. But I also can't seem to stop.

For what feels like freaking hours, I just sit there like that, sobbing and hiccuping and singing really pathetic songs to myself in my head because I wasn't even smart enough to bring my iPod to this stupid party. Now I'm stuck sitting in the woods all by myself, waiting until it's late enough that I can sneak back and hope nobody notices me until my mom finally shows up to take me home.

The tears eventually start to taper off after a while, and I try to keep it together and clean my face off with the side of my hands, but I know I still look like crap. I'd try to dry my eyes with my shirt but it's still wet.

I stare down at it and at my chest through the white material, and I'm really close to just letting go again, but I manage to mostly keep it in. There's just one little sniffle as I remember the look on Tyler's face. And Jessica's and Lauren's. And the pointing. And laughing. I practically stomp my feet, and I feel like such a little baby, and I wish I could just make all of this go away. All of it. Stupid Tyler and Jessica and Lauren. Everybody.

Except maybe Edward.

Maybe.

Part of me kind of wants to be mad at him, too, even though it's really, really hard to, what with being madly in love with him and all. I mean, in a way, this whole stupid situation is kind of his fault because if he hadn't looked so beautiful and perfect and amazing up there, hanging from the rope and getting ready to jump into the swimming hole, then maybe I wouldn't have been standing there ogling him and maybe I would have noticed Tyler getting ready to make a fool of me.

But then again, I also might not have had a chance to see him half naked. Because that would have been a really, really, really big shame. Because he was breathtaking.

I wipe away the last couple of tears, half-smiling just thinking about the sun on Edward's hair and his smooth, bare chest, even as I'm sniffling and wishing I had some tissues. I think about using some leaves or something, but with my luck I know they'd just be poison ivy anyway.

The forest sort of settles around me, and now that I've finally stopped sobbing it's eerily quiet. And kind of beautiful.

And lonely.

I'm just starting to feel a bit sorry for myself that I'm apparently the kind of girl that can leave a party without a single person noticing or caring, when I hear a tree branch snap behind me, and I'm suddenly very aware of the fact that I also the kind girl who's stupid enough to be out alone in the middle of the woods. Unsure if the thing that's approaching is a bear or a serial killer, but tending to lean toward the latter, I try to be quiet and still and hope maybe he didn't hear me, because I can't climb trees and there's nowhere to hide.

The sounds get closer and closer, and I'm seriously about _this close_ to freaking the heck out, but then there's a voice. And it's the best voice in the world. And it's calling my name.

"Bella? Bella? Are you out here?"

"E-Edward?" I croak, and I curse myself because I still sound really crappy for all the crying I've been doing. I doubly curse myself as I suddenly realize that drawing attention to myself may have been a really stupid idea, because now annoyingly perfect Edward Cullen is going to see me all snot-faced and splotchy and with my still semi-transparent, wet, white t-shirt. And this is not exactly the most flattering way to be seen.

It's too late, though, because then he's there, his stupid, beautiful face appearing from behind a bunch of leaves, and he looks really concerned. But then he sees me. And he smiles.

"Bella! Where the hell have you been?"

I giggle because he sounds super-serious, and it may be the first time I smile all day. Even though I felt like crap about three seconds ago, I'm suddenly irrationally happy. Because Edward is here. And he's so pretty. And he came here looking for _me_.

"What – what are you doing here?" I ask, self-consciously checking my face for tears and hoping my eyes aren't too red, at the same time that I kind of hope that maybe he notices I've been crying. And wants to, like, comfort me or something.

"Looking for you, silly," he says, rolling his eyes and walking over.

He's this gangly pile of legs and too long-arms when he moves, but I can't help watching anyway. I don't care that he's too skinny or that his upper lip is covered in peach fuzz or that he's a little sweaty. I just care that he's coming toward me and sitting next to me and that he smells like Edward and yummy and boy.

"Um, well, you found me," I say lamely, and even I'm rolling my eyes at myself now.

"Yeah."

We sit there in silence for a minute, and now I feel really self-conscious, and he probably thinks I'm an idiot.

"Um, my sister Alice, like, told me what Tyler did. To you."

"Oh."

"You, um, wanna talk about it?"

I shake my head fiercely to tell him that I don't.

"OK," he says, and I think he may be relieved, but then he adds, "I'm sorry he's a dick."

"Yeah," I agree. Because Tyler kind of is a dick.

"Is that why you're sitting out here alone?"

"No. Yeah. I don't know." I put my head in my hands and try to disappear, even though I'd normally be dying for a chance to be alone with Edward like this. This whole thing is so embarrassing, though, and I wish it would just be four o'clock already so my mom would be waiting for me and I could go.

"It's cool," he says, and I can almost hear the casual shrug. "I mean, sometimes I just want to get away from all those pricks, too."

"Yeah."

I'm so articulate.

"You wanna just hang out here for a bit? Or go back?"

I think for a second and bite my lip. It takes me a moment to realize that both of his alternatives seem to imply him staying with me, and my heart sort of races.

"Um, maybe stay here? I think? Or go back? I don't know. Or, um, you don't have to stay here with me if you don't want," I say, kind of glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, even while pretending to still be staring at the ground.

And for a second I think he maybe actually looks a little bit … disappointed?

Huh.

"Oh, right, um, yeah," he mumbles, shuffling as he moves to get up. "If you, like, want to be alone or whatever."

"No!" I say too loudly, and I cringe. "I mean, um, I don't want to be alone. Just, if you don't want to, you don't have to. Stay, I mean. You can go. Or stay. I'd like it if you stayed. I mean. I think."

I am an idiot.

But he stays.

We both breathe out a _huge_ sigh, and he sits back down, and it's possible he sits a little closer. Like by at least an inch. This again has my stomach doing little flip-flops, and my mind is racing. Because Edward Cullen wants to stay here and his nose is so cute and his lips are just _perfect_, and he smells so freaking good it's making me dizzy.

"Your mom is picking you up?" he finally says, and I'm sort of relieved and sort of annoyed because it was surprisingly comfortable, just sitting there, not talking. Not awkward like that kind of thing can sometimes be.

"Yeah."

"Mine, too."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, she's really nice about stuff like that. Like, all summer long I swear all she does is drive me and Alice everywhere. It's crazy."

"Yeah," I say, only this time it's a little sadder. Renee rarely drives me anywhere. It's just her and me and she's usually at work so I'm pretty much stuck at home by myself all the time. I'm a walking natural disaster, too, so I don't ride a bike. My transportation situation really sucks, basically.

Not that I really have anywhere to go or anything.

Which also sucks.

"She probably wouldn't mind picking you up. You know. If you ever wanted to, like hang out or something."

"Yeah?" I say. Because apparently it's the only word left in my vocabulary when Edward is sitting next to me.

"Yeah. Totally. She's, like, really cool."

I hum and then we sit some more. And again it's comfortable.

And again, he edges just a tiny bit closer to me.

"So, um, when you said yeah, did that mean, you, like, want to? Like, hang out sometime or something?"

I dare to glance up at him, but he's just staring down, looking really intensely at something on the ground. I get a bit distracted looking at his eyelashes because they're super pretty and really long, but then I realize he's not looking at the ground. He's looking at his hand. And my hand. And they're really close together on the ground.

Like, really close together. Like, close enough that I could touch him.

And then, almost accidentally, I do touch him. It's super brief and probably a little spastic even, but I'm staring at it so hard that my pinky finger sort of twitches, and when it does, it touches his, and his hand is warm and I'm freaking soaring.

Something happens then, because as I'm pinky-twitching and touching him and spazzing, he gulps, and the little bump in his throat that's going to be an Adam's apple someday soon moves, and it's utterly … captivating. And then his fingers reach out until they're touching mine. Intentionally.

"Bella?" His voice is really gruff and sort of hoarse and I swallow because it does something to me, all the little butterflies sort of sinking at the same time and there's this tingling. I have Edward-tingles.

"Yeah?" I whisper.

"Like, yes, yeah?"

"Yeah. Definitely. Yes, yeah."

And even I can't help but giggle. Only it's more of a snort than a giggle, and then I'm mortified, but he laughs, too, and all the tension is suddenly gone, and it's just me and a beautiful, amazing-smelling boy who's touching me.

"You're pretty cool, Bella Swan," he says, and it's soft and he's smiling and looking up at me slyly.

All I can do is return the sentiment, and since he was brave and reached out his hand, I figure I can do the same. Scarcely breathing, I just go ahead and grab his whole hand.

"You're pretty cool, too, Edward Cullen."

He smiles really big, and not only does he let me hold his hand, but he interlocks our fingers, and it's like we're really holding hands. Like, for real. Like a boy and a girl would, and the tingles move all the way back into my tummy.

"Cool," he says.

And I agree. Because it is so, so, so totally cool.

So I say the only thing I can.

Literally.

Mumbling and blushing and gripping way too tightly at his hand, I just smile and stare at him. And so quietly, I whisper, simply, "Yeah."


	6. Drowning

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** keeps me sane.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally expand on her vision of the honeymoon...

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 15  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/aKaxYB)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

There's a part of me that should be afraid of the water.

I remember drowning.

Vividly.

The salt-wet sting and the burn, the ache in lungs that want nothing more than to expand and breathe, pressure and the wrong kind of resistance as a diaphragm draws in. Expels. Chokes.

Dies.

I remember drowning.

It's a bittersweet vision of a memory though. Sometimes, when I dive just a bit below the waves beside our island, I can recall it, the simmering ache of too much water and not enough air mixing and entangling in my memory with the brilliance of his face. The vision comes to me, even now, after I've had so much time to heal the torn up fabric of my chest, pain radiating in brightly glowing lines that travel through the stitches we have never completely pulled from rendered flesh nor put to rest.

Pain. A memory of pain so visceral it shakes me.

But amidst the pain, there is also hope.

Submerged, I can still feel the hope that welled up within me as I was drowning, even as my dying fingertips were drifting through the imagined, insubstantial memory of his skin. Dissipating. Scattering.

Sometimes I linger there, just beneath the surface of this deeper, calmer sea that he has brought us to, drawing in heat and salt and swimming in water and remembering the ghost of his face. I remember the vision of him painted with spectral lines, like seeing him through static in what I was quite convinced were the final moments of my life.

It looks nothing like the way he does now.

I understand that, now.

The churning memory of water rushes over me as I luxuriate in stillness. For all the brightness of the sun, I see darkness when my eyes close and I remember the cold flow of debris and the pressure on my lungs, impact still resonating through my bones with the memory of being buffeted by waves that would not hold me. Only drown me.

I feel the pain of memories that would not hold me.

Only drown me.

I can open my eyes and feel the present, though, too.

And with my vision restored, I know why I am not afraid of water. Crystal blue, warm and cocooning, and the tingling fullness of a presence at my side. There's pressure on my lungs, but it's the kind that does not threaten. I know where I am now, and though there is no sandy bottom at my feet, I understand that if I were to sink just a few more inches down, I could be grounded.

That were I rise but a few more inches higher, I would see his face.

And that his face would finally be true.

Even as I drift, I feel him beside me. There's no way to explain the sensation of the lover and husband whose vision I nearly drowned for standing on warm sand, his cold body naked in waters that connect us the way our memories do. Flowing. Moving. Currents of past and present and all of it mixing.

I know that even without the need for air, he almost drowned too, but that he did so submerged in memories alone.

For just a few moments longer, I linger, until the need for air is finally too much, and with a single kick, I rise. Surface. Brilliant sun and the water warm below.

And then a whisper of my name.

Turning, I find him, brilliance and ivory, sunlight dancing on the multifaceted surface of his skin, and all of it is beautiful.

In his vision, I know that I am beautiful, too.

There in the water that almost showed me death and solace, I find life through the lukewarm touch of his hand. Strong arms enfold me more tightly than the sea, soft kisses, and my eyes closing against the radiance of my lover in the sunlight. I feel with fingertips and other skin instead of with my sight, my naked thighs parting to wrap around hips that are finally so sure.

I love the feel of him, unfrightened now and unrestrained. With the motion of lips over necks and of his hands over my breast, we push away other memories of water. We push away all of the things that made us this way.

But they never truly go away.

"Forever," I whisper into his kiss, and I so desperately long to believe it. To truly _know_ that this is the only image of his face in the water that I will ever need to know again.

"Forever," he agrees as our bodies swim closer, hands pulling softly at hips in a painstaking effort not to bruise the fragile skin he's pushed too roughly before. Lifting. Feeling. He enters my body as he has these precious handful of times, and together we rock with the motion of the waves, his solidity becoming the earth I cannot reach and my fluidity around his hardness water. Needed or not as it may be, we each draw in air, ragged breaths, and with the motion of our union we set that air and earth and water to flame.

And in that flame, my memories burn.

And I am unafraid.

Together, we swim.

A tangle of limbs, entwining amidst salt and ocean, we are present recreating past, and I am so surrounded by him that it feels like drowning all over again in its intensity, lungs that cannot fill and the air almost too heavy to breathe, his scent a fluid thing that air sacs cannot expand around. There's pressure, too, although it is a different kind. Lower. Deeper.

But still I feel as if I am set to burst.

Buffeted but in control, I am impact and the collision of hips. Spectral lines are real ones for all that they are brilliant, and my fingertips on his face meet substance, hard flesh that they cannot dance around. Or through.

Because my lover has never been more real than he is when he holds me, his body inside mine like his soul has always lived inside my mind.

Swimming, we love, and loving, we swim. We are light and air and all things emerging from the dark, and instead of sinking, I am floating, an intensity of pleasure and my climax coming over me in waves of want and water and him. Gasping, he is with me there, too, and instead of drowning alone, we are crashing together into this sea of liquid flowing freely and of his body pulsing thickly inside of me.

And then, together, we are still.

It is only as his body is slipping away from mine that I remember where we are or why I thought I should be afraid. But I can never forget why I am not.

There is a part of me that should be afraid of the water.

I remember drowning.

But these days, I only drown in him.


	7. What Happens Next

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** keeps me sane.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally invent babies for them to play with, too.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 6  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/dpoCLD)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

As Edward enters the house, it is silent.

Too silent.

Slipping out of his jacket, he begins to call out before stopping himself. He reflects on how tired Bella has seemed recently, the feel of her cool forehead beneath his lips still lingering in his mind as he remembers urging her before he left to get some rest. He steps quietly into the hallway, making first for their room where he sees her draped out, a long pillow pulled up against her side and the tiniest line of dampness hanging at the corner of her mouth. The smile that lights his face is a softly glowing one as he places his hand against the doorframe, pushing down the nearly overwhelming need he feels right then to slip his own body into the bed alongside hers - to intertwine their fingers over the soft curve of her swollen belly and to kiss where her navel has just begun to rise above the level of her skin.

And he can't help but think that she has never looked so beautiful as she does right now, her body full and round with his child.

Just when he thinks he cannot resist the call of her gracefully sloping neck, he hears a thump from down the hallway and then a tiny voice calling out in surprise. Tearing himself away from the sight of his Bella, Edward moves quickly down the hall, equal parts nerves and irritation impelling him forward. He pauses at the open doorway three doors down, but he is unsurprised to find it empty, the pale pink sheets rumpled and the pillows all thrown to the side.

Shaking his head, he continues forward until he finds the missing head of bouncing red curls and the baby soft skin he loves to bury his nose in. Poking his head into the library, he spies his little girl with one foot poised on the first rung of the ladder, and even in profile, he can make out the grim look of utter determination he's seen on her mother's face so many times before.

And for all his concern and annoyance, he can't help but smile.

"Elizabeth Renee Cullen," he murmurs, and the girl's shoulder-length curls bounce. When she turns to meet his chastising expression with big, brown doe eyes, it is clear in her expression that she recognizes what it means to be called by all three of her names.

She widens her eyes as if about to protest, but Edward quickly raises his finger to his lips to whisper, "Mommy's sleeping."

He almost laughs himself when she mimics his movement, one tiny finger going to pouty pink lips. Putting on the most severe face he can manage, he pushes the door most of the way closed before walking over to her, squatting down on his knees to bring himself to her eye level.

"What have we said about this ladder, Elizabeth?" he whispers evenly.

She looks crushed and contrite as she shakes her head. "Don't touch."

"That's right. And why aren't you supposed to touch?"

"B-b-because I s'not safe and if I fall my head a bust open."

He can't stop himself from kissing her forehead, still feeling amazed by the way that her entire head seems to fit inside his palm. Pulling back far enough to look into her eyes, he tweaks her nose. "And we wouldn't want that, right?"

"Nuh-uh."

"C'mon, love. All the books up there are for boring old men like your Daddy anyway. Let's go find something for little girls."

With her hand inside of his, he leads her away from the ladder and over to the other side of the room. She immediately plunks down on her bottom to paw through the shelves he and Bella have set aside just for her and her already staggering collection of books. A soft tug at the hem of his jeans brings him down to the floor at her side where he quickly becomes a jungle gym of sorts, grunting as she pushes a hand into his thigh and sits on his lap, handing him one book after another. He puts a stop to it eventually, insists that she pick out just three.

It's a monumental decision for a little mind, and she goes back and forth for a few minutes, biting into her own lip in a way that is so reminiscent of her mother. When she finally hands her selections over, he considers them and praises her choices. He helps his daughter up off the floor, and together they retreat to the loveseat in the corner where she snuggles against his side as if it is the most natural thing in the world to do to.

Reclining back against the arm of the sofa, Edward wiles away a happy hour with his daughter there in their library. He reads to her and answers her questions, letting her point to all the characters she loves and tolerating it when she bounces up and down on his leg or tries to climb the mountain of his shoulder or perch on his arm. After a time, she settles, and lets him get through three or four of the stories in the collection she selected, leaning into the warmth of his chest as he allows his fingers to twist in her glowing, auburn curls.

Bella finds them there a little while later. Rising from her nap, she is refreshed and rejuvenated, feeling grateful that her daughter has stayed so quiet for so long, and worrying about what it will be like when she has two little ones to tend to. She begins to go to look for Elizabeth in her room, but she quickly hears the soft, murmuring voice of her husband coming from farther down the hall and changes course.

Peering through the crack in the door to the library, Bella's hand automatically goes up to her mouth as she takes in the sight of the two of them, quiet tears starting to well up in her eyes. She would like to think that it is the hormones that are making her so emotional. But she knows full well that it is so much more than that.

She knows her tears are for the way her husband has always looked at his daughter as if she is the most special person in the entire world. They are for the soft affection that dances in his eyes at her every smile, and for the near-infinite patience he has always shown. They're for his many sleepless nights and tired days, and the way that, even when the exhaustion and tension have threatened to overwhelm them, he has still found ways to be loving and kind.

And they are for the knowledge that she'll soon bear them a son, and for the hope that their little boy will have his father's compassion and his heart.

The emotion pulling at her throat makes Bella's breath rasp, and Edward hears it, his eyes moving up from the page to take in the glassy sheen to his wife's eyes and the flush of her cheeks. She shakes her head preemptively before he can manage to voice his concern, placing her hand to her heart. As she does, she inadvertently touches his heart, too, just by virtue of the warmth of the gesture.

Shifting their daughter's now-sleeping form to his side, Edward smiles and waves Bella over. As she makes her way toward them, he idly wonders what it will be like when there are four of them packed into the tiny loveseat instead of three, but then he remembers pondering the exact same sort of question back when it was just the two of them.

Their whispers are soft over the sound of their daughter's steady breath as their lips meet, sharing sweet, wet kisses of hello.

"How was your day?" she asks while touching his face and feeling his fingertips moving softly across the crest of her belly.

"Fine. Better now."

"Good."

Checking again that Elizabeth is asleep, Edward closes her book before reaching behind him for another one. He finds their place with ease, flipping to it even as Bella's head is settling on his shoulder. Together, as they have on so many other evenings before, they begin to read, enjoying a rare moment of quiet in the midst of their increasingly frantic lives.

They make it through a half dozen pages or so before their daughter begins to stir. He knows her sleeping form well enough to recognize the signs that she will be waking soon, and he thinks to himself that it is just as well, uninterested as he is in fighting to put her to bed tonight. But he is still reluctant in pulling away from his wife's warm side.

"Do we really have to move?" she asks in a quiet drawl, her hand reaching out to play with the soft curls on Elizabeth's head.

"Not quite yet. But soon."

She hums and burrows her nose against his neck before flipping the page, hoping for just another few minutes curled up with her husband and their child. "Do you ever wish you could just stop time? That life could always be just like this?"

He's slow in his reply, pretending to pay attention to the words on the page. "Sometimes." When his eyes meet hers, they are hopeful and soft, his touch lingering on the place where her ribs give way to her still-growing belly. Before he speaks, his eyes dart back down to the book they hold in their hands. "But as good as this page of the story is, I can't wait to find out what happens next."

Because as they read, they are writing, too, he thinks. They are writing the story of their family and their love and their lives.

And it's a story that he never wants to end.


	8. The Summer House

Extra special thanks to **letmesign** for pinch-hit beta'ing and to **bmango** for pre-reading.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally I play very, very sad songs...

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 19  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/cosgkt)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

**WARNING: This story is ****NOT**** wussperv approved.**

**

* * *

**

The world is white and blue and grey. A rush a sea-salt air and the fluttering of curtains. Foggy glass and through it, a monochrome landscape.

Turning, I take in windows opening up onto cold sand and rushing water. Reflections on dirty panes.

An image of his face and mine and intertwined hands.

A bed. Empty. The sheets crumpled and thrown out of the way.

"Mom?"

My body still frozen at the threshold to the summer house, I turn to see my daughter's wide eyes peering down at me, their brown hue muted by the hazy morning light, her hair dulled in color but still wild with wind and worry.

Her hand on my shoulder is warm through the cold spring chill of the harbor, and I cling to it, hearing time passing. Slipping.

"Maybe tomorrow?" she finally asks, but I don't answer immediately. Instead, I let my eyes wander over plaster and the beginning signs of decay. It's the decay of the physical structure this time, walls set in with too much water in the air, floorboards curling upward and the scent of mold hanging over everything.

It's the keys of the piano in the corner, yellowing and old, the wood and the frame warping.

In the back of my mind, I hear the echo of his voice in the haunting timbre of memory, recalling the look in his eyes as he'd told me he wanted to bring it with us that year.

"You wouldn't deny me my music, would you, love?" he'd asked so quietly, his body frail by that time, with barely the strength to caress the keys.

And yet every night we had spent here that summer, he had played for me.

"C'mon, Mom," my daughter whispers to me, and she pries me from the door frame and out across the gravel, past the sand.

The quiet closing of the car door behind me marks yet another day when I've failed to face his memory.

Another day with pavement disappearing beneath me, silent wheels rushing us ever and always away.

o~o~o~o~o~o~o

At the end of the season every year, we would work as a family to close up the summer house, fettering windows and making things ready for the next year. Scrubbing away another summer's worth of laughter and sand and salt.

We didn't do any of that last year.

Instead I just closed the door and drove away.

Alone.

Crossing the threshold again the next morning, I see the toll taken by our lack of care. With misty eyes, I take in sandy corners and the thin layer of dust that covers everything.

Everything except my memories.

My daughter looks at me with worry again, whispering about what we do and do not have to do this morning, but I shake my head and push her away with a sad, wry smile. When she hovers near me, trying to assess my stability, I squeeze her hand and tell her not to concern herself with me.

I can't look at her, though – at the glints of red that shine through her hair or at the shape of her chin.

Not here.

Not today.

Behind her is the flicker of a ghost, a crooked smile reflecting back at me, and pale hands in greying, auburn hair. So much love in cloudy eyes that I remember staring back at me and at the beautiful girl we made.

I sit at the piano bench then, almost overcome but trying not to be.

And quietly, my fingers find the melody that my memory hears drifting on the air.

I can't play it the way he used to.

I can't play at all. Not really.

All I can do is close my eyes and feel the softness of his hands resting over mine, showing me the order in which to press the keys.

Wishing he was here beside me.

o~o~o~o~o~o~o

All day long, my daughter cares for the old house the way that I care for his memory.

And together but separately, we pack everything away.

o~o~o~o~o~o~o

The cool blue light of morning at the harbor gives way to the warm glow of afternoon before I finally make my way toward our bedroom.

Staring at the bed, I try not to think of sunken eyes and syringes of morphine. The low voice of a doctor telling me it's time.

Instead, I call to mind his face when first we arrived last year, the haunted smile after I gave in to his request to see the ocean one last time. I see him there with color still lingering in pale, thin cheeks.

I hear him whisper, "Bella, please sit with me."

I curl into the bed frame the way I once curled myself up against his chest, trying to remember the feeling of his arms around me as we would simply hold each other and sit. In my memory, I feel the strength in his weakening body as he let me cry, clutching at him even as I was steeling myself to let him slip away. Until, unbidden, the image of dead eyes, staring, open forever, creeps over me.

Our daughter finds me there, silent tears streaming down my face.

Her arms aren't his, but they are warm and strong all the same.

o~o~o~o~o~o~o

I watch the sun set over the sand and waves with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders, feeling his fingers draping it over me, caressing at my neck. I can almost hear his voice laughingly telling me it made me look like an old lady, even though I wasn't one.

But he wasn't an old man, either.

And yet, by that point, the cancer had made him look like one.

The last night we'd sat here on the beach together, he'd made me promise him so many things. That I wouldn't linger and that I would never forget. That I would move on.

I haven't yet.

As the sun begins to sink down below the waves, I kiss the air like I would his hands and dig my fingers into the cool sand, wondering if I could touch him through the earth he now inhabits.

Wondering if he's cold wherever his ashes are now.

With my heels sinking deeply into the sand, I walk away from the ocean slowly, stopping only when I can reach out and press my palms to the old wooden boards of the house. Inside, I know my daughter is waiting for me. That the cleanup is complete.

That we can go now.

Only I can't.

I circle the house slowly until I reach the alee side, the place where sand and rock give way to grass.

To a place that is covered with shells.

For the first time all day, I speak his name, reading aloud the marker we carved for him.

"Edward," I whisper, imagining one last time that he is with me.

But for once there is finally an answer.

The music starts softly, uncertainly. In its cadence, I can hear our daughter's shaking movements on yellowed keys, her father's hands living on in her body.

The hands that he gave to her.

Each note rings out, and even though the old instrument is out of tune, it all sounds true. For long minutes, I kneel there, letting the song he wrote for me envelop my body, reaching out with my own hands to trace endlessly over the carved surfaces of his name.

When the song is over, I hear the cover to the piano being closed, wood settling over wood. But with finality this time.

Still shaking, I kiss my palm and press it softly to the stand-in for his grave.

And then, finally, I walk away.


	9. Invisible

**antiaol** makes my words pretty. **bmango** and **letmesign **help keep me sane.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally not in a very nice way. :(

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 18  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/d3CLjA)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

**WARNING:**** This one-shot includes descriptions of domestic abuse. It's a tough read in spots, and if you have any triggers related to abuse, please tread carefully, or consider skipping this one altogether.**

* * *

The first time Edward saw her, he almost screamed. Checking his mail on what would have otherwise been a perfectly ordinary day, he turned to find her where he had thought that there was no one. A mass of hunched shoulders and dull, lifeless hair, she seemed to almost fade in and out of the woodwork, an insubstantial quality clinging to her sad, pale skin.

Idly, he found himself wondering if she might not disappear in the light or float away on a current in the breeze, and why it was exactly that he couldn't remember having seen her before.

Realizing that he was staring, he turned his attention back to his own task. He was distracted by the woman's still-lingering presence in the entryway, though, and found his eyes darting toward her repeatedly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. When she continued to stare down, he glanced at the name on the mailbox, wondering if perhaps she was new.

It was at that point that he frowned, recognizing the name of the man who not only lived upstairs from him, but who had - at that point - done so for several years. He knew the man's hours and his footfalls.

And, unfortunately, the sound of his voice. Always cursing. Always yelling.

With a feeling of protectiveness that surprised him, Edward suddenly found himself hoping the man hadn't been yelling at _her_.

He shook his head to try to ground himself, returning his gaze to the letters in his hand, but he couldn't seem to wash the worry from his mind nor the frown from his face. At long last, he decided that there was no point in speculating and worrying, so with his most reassuring smile, he turned to her and held out his hand.

"I don't believe we've met," he began, but that was all he managed to get out.

As if she had not seen him either, the woman startled almost violently, looking up through her greasy hair with terrified eyes. Edward watched in dismay as her shaking hands dropped the small stack of envelopes and fliers she had been sorting through as her pale face turned a vibrant red.

Before he even thought to do it, he found himself on his hands and knees beside her, his arm outstretched again to hand a stray envelope to her. Still skittish, she darted out a trembling hand to take it and whispered a quiet, "thanks," before standing, her scared eyes pointed down.

"I'm sorry to have startled you," Edward said in soft, apologetic tones, but she merely shook her head, glancing upward at the stairs behind him as if they could save her.

Only he didn't know what she needed saving from.

Backing up slightly so as not to stand between the woman and the stairs, he smiled again, but this time he considered more carefully and chose not to extend his hand. "I'm Edward," he offered quietly.

Her voice, when she finally exercised it, hit his ears with a deep resonance, for all that it barely rose above a whisper. "Bella."

For just a moment, her gaze met his as her face tilted upward. And for those few seconds, Edward felt himself completely lost, staring into the saddest, most beautiful eyes in the entire world. They were eyes that seemed to be looking through him instead of at him, though.

With a start, the woman jerked her head back down, a shiver running the length of her curved spine as she gestured dimly behind him. All he could do was nod as he watched her silently skitter across the tile and up the stairs.

And just as he had half expected her to, within seconds he found that she had disappeared from view.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

That night, Edward listened just a little more carefully to the angry noises drifting down to him through his ceiling, and once or twice amidst the cacophony of snarls, he swore he heard her name.

And though the same warm feeling of protectiveness swirled up inside of him that he had felt beside her in the entryway, he eventually just did what he had always done whenever the neighbors were angry. With a sigh, he turned up the volume on his stereo and returned to his reading.

But that night, he didn't sleep as well as he had the night before.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Once he had noticed her, Edward realized that he saw Bella everywhere. On an almost daily basis, he would pass her in the stairwell or find himself standing beside her as he paused to get his mail. At the grocery store, he would notice her slight form hunched over a nearly bare cart, or he would see her carefully counting from a small stack of bills pulled from a tattered change purse.

The more he thought about it, sitting in his apartment alone at night, the more he began to wonder if perhaps she had always been there. The things that stuck out to him the most as he imagined her were all the ways in which she was invisible. In his mind's eye, he saw pale skin and sad eyes, but always they were hidden behind that hair. He focused less on the worn texture and the muted colors of her clothes, and more on the way that they always threatened to devour her.

And occasionally, in the deepest hours of the night, he would wonder she might look like beneath those clothes.

Each time he encountered her, he would pause and say hello, and each time she seemed surprised, as if she hadn't noticed him standing before her or beside her. With a stuttering mumble, she would simply return his greeting and then turn her eyes down, searching desperately for an escape.

But even though she didn't seem to ever see him, he couldn't stop himself from always looking for her.

Over time, he began to notice a pattern to her appearances in his life, and it was with a sad, guilty sigh that he recognized how they came and went with the noises that carried down from the apartment above. Most importantly, he noticed how she always seemed to disappear for a few days after the yelling reached a certain intensity.

Or after the sound of an impact or a crash.

So many times, he listened to the altercations with his phone in his hand, uncertain fingers hovering over the illuminated keypad. But just when he would finally resolve to dial, the world would quiet.

Even if, sometimes, it took him hours to work up that resolution.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

With the passage of time, Bella slowly began to grow less skittish around him, even if she always reacted to his appearance with surprise. As the weeks and months went by, whispered hellos evolved into polite commentary on the weather or the state of the landscaping outside of their building. Eventually, they even began to trade quiet lies about how they were.

He would have felt bad about the lies, except that beneath them, there was truth.

He knew that when he told her he was fine, with his eyes he expressed his guilt and his concern. And when she declared things in her life to be okay, he read the same aching sadness in her eyes. He knew that his goodbye each time he saw her was an apology. And that hers was forgiveness for what she did not even see to be a crime.

The first time they talked for any real length of time, he found her sitting on the front stoop, her ever-hidden face buried deeply inside her hands. He thought to himself as he approached their shared front door that her shroud of invisibility still persisted, and that anyone who was not attuned to her half-presence might have walked right by.

He was far too aware to do that to her now, though.

Even if she still didn't seem to see him at all.

"Bella?" he called out with the quiet voice he always used, cognizant of just how easy she still was to frighten.

But for all that Edward had become accustomed to the sorrow that seemed to be etched in her expression, he was completely unprepared for the sight that awaited him when she lifted her eyes. A deep, stabbing sensation ripped the bottom out of his chest as he took in the fallen face and the continuous stream of tears.

All of his worries about propriety or about what his neighbor might think about his intruding on his affairs evaporated as Edward closed with uncommon speed and dropped unceremoniously to his knees. "Bella? What happened? What's the matter?"

He wanted nothing more in that moment than to touch her and to take her thin body into his arms. In all the time that he had known her, he had never felt her skin or given her comfort like that, and with all of his will he longed to.

But still he hesitated.

As he watched on in horror, Bella began to rock from side to side, mumbling and crying, and Edward found himself split, straining to keep an acceptable distance and yet still trying to get close enough to hear. When the words "kill me" filtered through his ears, he had to fight back the instinct to finally act.

Using all the restraint he had left, he crouched down even lower until he could see her eyes behind the veil of hair, whispering gently, "Bella? Will you please tell me what happened?"

Still rocking, she whispered and mumbled, gesturing at a small grocery sack and at the door behind her, but all Edward could make out was the word, "key."

"Did you lock yourself out, love?"

Her quiet sobs increased in intensity for a moment as she nodded, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Standing, he murmured with as much confidence as he could muster, "Well, that's easy to fix."

And then, for the first time since that very first day, he offered the girl his hand.

Just as she had back then, she flinched the moment it came into her vision, her reaction making him wince. But then, brushing away the deep lines of tears, she looked up, and this time their eyes connected, followed by their hands.

It was such a small thing, really, but the contact between his skin and hers seemed electrical to him, the trust implicit in it satisfying some deep need he had been ignoring all the while. Bracing his body, he helped her to her feet, smiling gently even as she dropped his hand and his gaze the minute she'd managed to stand.

Stepping closer to her body than he had ever been before, Edward deftly unlocked the door and held it open for her, answering the hesitation in her downcast eyes as she moved past him. "You can put your things in my fridge for now, if you'd like, and we can call the super."

At that, she unexpectedly crumpled, shaking her head and staring at the ground again.

"The bill," she murmured. "He'll kill me."

Edward's heart sank when he realized of what she was speaking.

It sank even further when he recalled the tiny change purse she always carried, and how she counted so carefully.

Even before he offered, he knew the twenty dollars it would cost him to pay the landlord for the lockout didn't even begin to cover the debt he still felt in his heart.

"I can talk to the super, Bella. _He_ won't ever have to know," Edward said, gestured slightly with his thumb toward the apartment above their heads.

"He won't?" she asked quietly.

"Not if you don't want him to."

Finally she nodded, whispering, "OK."

He carried her bag for her as he led her up the stairs, sighing with the knowledge that it was the only one of her burdens he could take for her.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Having Bella in his apartment was surreal for Edward. While he looked up the number for the superintendent, she phased in and out of space, managing to blend in with carpeting and upholstery, and he needed to keep his gaze focused on her firmly to keep her from fading away from him completely. After making the call, he placed the perishable contents of her grocery sack into his fridge, frowning when he realized how empty he had left that space, and how much more full it looked when he pretended her items were there to feed him.

Looking at her tiny, hunching frame, he wished that he could feed her, as well.

They spent a pleasant hour talking together while they waited, and bit by bit, he watched as she grew more and more relaxed. At one point, he made a comment about the plumbing in the old building and heard the brilliant trill of her laugh.

And he swore that he had never heard anything more beautiful.

Time was slipping past too quickly for his liking, he realized, but it still took him almost the entire hour before he lowered his voice and shifted their conversation to more important things.

"How long have you been with him?" he finally asked, gesturing again toward the ceiling. As quickly as Bella had bloomed, she wilted before Edward at just the mention of her boyfriend. Her keeper.

"With James?"

Edward nodded and held his breath for the long moment it took before she answered.

"Three years next Saturday," she finally whispered, curling into herself and cradling herself protectively.

"Bella," he murmured, moving closer even though he knew how nervous she always got at his proximity. "If he ever - if you - " Edward's voice faltered as her eyes grew wider, focusing in a panic at a spot in the distance just beyond him. He sighed. "If you needed anything, would you tell me?"

Her response when it came was quiet, but at least it was truthful. "Maybe."

For the second time that day then, Edward touched her, just a careful fingertip brushing softly over her thumb. "Bella," he whispered. "Please."

Before she could answer, a pounding knock sounded at the door, and Bella jumped, moving frantically across the room to gather her things. Striding sadly to the door, Edward greeted the super, and quietly paid him Bella's fee in the hallway. Behind him, he heard the refrigerator opening and closing, and with it, Edward closed off any hope he might have had for saving her.

There was a dull ache in his chest as he watched her scurry up the stairs behind the man.

As he was closing his own door, he realized she had never said either thank you or goodbye to him.

But it was only later that he realized exactly how little reason he had given for her to.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

It was unusually hot in the city that night. Stripped down to just an undershirt and shorts, Edward paced the apartment restlessly, wishing he might hear something from the beautiful girl who lived above him and at the same time praying that he wouldn't. With a frustrated groan, sweating against the heat of the air and of his guilt, he crossed the room to the window and threw it a little further open.

And that was when he heard it.

With his head almost leaning out the window, Edward could make out the angry voice above his head with startling clarity, every word making his empty hands clench into fists.

"Even a fucking retard could remember to get milk. I don't know why the hell I keep you," a man's voice hissed.

And even from the floor below, Edward felt the slap, wincing as if the hand had fallen on his own skin.

Fighting down the urge to retch, Edward stalked across the room and opened the refrigerator with a sense of dread. When he saw the milk sitting there, tucked into the otherwise empty shelf in the door, he actually did feel his stomach flexing, a taste of bile in the back of his mouth. He closed the door only to lean his flushed face against its surface, wishing that he could bring it up to her, but feeling certain that storing food in a stranger's fridge would only bring more unhappiness down on his Bella.

"Don't know what the fuck you do with your days if you're not even taking care of my house. While I'm out slaving away, providing for you."

The man's voice upstairs rose in volume and intensity, and Edward almost wanted to slap his hands over his ears. To block it out.

Only he couldn't this time. Not when it was his fault.

"Where the fuck is the rest of my money? You're short, you stupid bitch."

Edward's fist slammed against the metal door at the same time that he heard a crash upstairs and the soft sobbing of a musical voice as it cried out in pain and surprise.

This time he couldn't come up with any excuses. None at all.

Because he was involved now. Like it or not.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

The phone rang three times before it picked up. As quietly as he could, Edward told the dispatcher about the sounds of fighting going on upstairs as he paced back toward the window. And then he pleaded for them to hurry.

Another dull impact sounded against the floor, and Edward almost pulled out his hair, crouching on his knees against the windowsill as he listened to the violence he was now responsible for. The violence he could have stopped had he only called earlier, or had he noticed the thing she had forgotten.

After a moment the sounds all stopped upstairs, and he couldn't decide if it was better or worse.

"So this is it. What you've been hiding from me." The voice was cold and quiet now and so much more menacing in its barely contained fury.

_Worse_, Edward decided._ It was definitely worse._

For the first time then, he could hear Bella's voice clearly, echoing endlessly in his mind. "It's not, James - I promise you, it's nothing," she whimpered.

In her voice Edward could already hear the swelling in her face, and he punched the floor to keep from running up the stairs and kicking in her door.

"Nothing," the man hissed, and Edward closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, all he could see were pages.

Hundreds of pages.

White and fluttering on the heavy air, clean black writing, flowing script.

Drifting.

Falling.

"No!"

And with that, Edward finally lost his control. Because never, in all the years that he had been trying not to listen to the couple upstairs, had he ever heard her scream.

Lunging his head out the window, he saw the piles of pages beginning to settle into row after row of puddles, scattering across the ground below. And above him, he saw her outstretched arms and grasping.

The door to his apartment almost came off in his hand as he threw it open, but he didn't make it far before he heard the one above him opening as well.

"Get the fuck out of my house," the man's voice spat, and then Edward heard only Bella's quiet whimper and her body making impact with the floor. By the time he had cleared the two flights of stairs, she was already righting herself, standing on teetering legs and looking as if she might be about to fall.

As his arms closed around her, Edward vowed that she would never fall again.

"Bella - " he started, but her wide eyes silenced him even as they stared straight through him.

Wide eyes filled with tears and ringed with bruises. Wide eyes above a split lip and a reddening jaw.

"Shh," she begged, pulling him down the stairs. It was only as they were descending, though, that he realized she hadn't shrunk away from him. And that she was clinging to his arm.

Much to his surprise, she didn't stop at his door, continuing to stumble onward. He was about to protest, to insist that she let him clean up her face and look at the angry welt he could already see forming on her arm. But when he tried to speak and to make her stop, she shook her head.

And for the first time, in her eyes he saw resolve.

Together, they burst out onto the street, instantly assailed by a gust of rushing air. Around them, bright white sheets of paper were still raining down, and with her one good hand, Bella reached out, trying desperately to catch them.

To Edward, all she could murmur was, "Please."

Not knowing what else to do, he agreed, chasing the pages down the length of the street, something falling in his chest as he gathered up the ones that were already soaked as he watched the curling handwriting bleed and run.

He was so distracted with chasing them down that he didn't hear the shouts from above, nor the sound of a door opening, nor the peal of sirens. The only thing he heard was Bella screaming and then the dull thud of fist on bone beside his ear.

Before his head hit the pavement, he had just enough time to grab for the man, seeing James face to face for the first time since he had met his Bella. He felt the crunch as his own hands jerked at the man's ponytail and jaw and twisted. He felt the impact of the other man's head against the ground.

And then, as darkness gathered, he felt the impact of his own.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Edward woke to the cold scent of a hospital.

But the fingers moving through his hair were warm.

He opened his eyes slowly to take in long brown hair, and eyes that, while still sad, were not so sad as they had been before. Eyes that were looking right at him.

And they were still so beautiful.

"Bella," he mumbled thickly, surprised at the raspiness of his own voice, and at the relieved smile that awaited him as soon as he had finished speaking.

"Edward," she whispered, and he found her face so close beside his, warm lips pressing gently to his forehead as his hand fought to rise enough above the bed to touch her hair. "Thank God," she mumbled. "I was so worried."

"What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

He fought to, but all he had were images of paper drifting in the wind and of an angry face leering at him.

And then blank, lifeless eyes.

Bella placed one more grateful kiss against his brow before sitting back, and she failed to flinch when he grasped her hand. Still shaking, she told him the events of the evening. Of the missing milk and of James' rage. Of the novel she had been writing secretly in longhand for almost a year. Of fluttering pages.

And then of him.

"Did you call the police?" she finally asked, and he winced, but nodded dimly.

Rather than upset, she seemed grateful, squeezing his hand and explaining how they had already arrived at the scene when James had pushed her and hit him.

"Is he - what happened - "

He watched as Bella's eyes filled with tears at the same time that her soft mouth erupted into a smile. "You saved me," she whispered.

"No, I - I should have said something earlier. Should have called - "

"Edward, his neck snapped when he fell."

Sitting up in the hospital bed, Edward remembered the crunch and the way his hands had twisted as he'd grasped at the man's jaw. Sputtering, he watched as possibilities swirled around him. Images of prison cells and newspaper headlines, bold type reading "Murderer" above a picture of his face. Images of Bella and him, and of her smile as she whispered yes when he finally asked if she'd be his. Images of her. Just her.

With eyes that were happy.

"Is he - did I - "

"You're fine. The police saw everything. They know it was an accident. Self-defense. But he's - he's dead, Edward," she whispered. And then, eyes shining brightly, she added, "I'm free."

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Over the next few months, Edward watched as Bella grew into freedom and into her own skin, her slight form growing more substantial everyday, until eventually everyone could see her. Until she wasn't invisible any more.

For a week, she stayed in his apartment, in his bed, while he slept on the couch in the other room. They shared meals and laughter, and more than once, she kissed his forehead. And never again did she flinch away when Edward took her hand in his.

On the third day, they entered her old apartment, where the stale ghosts of anger and of fear assaulted them. Together, they threw the windows wide. And with paint and care, all those ghosts were exorcised.

Even after she moved back into the home that was now hers alone, Edward and Bella spent most of their free time together. Beyond the few affectionate gestures they had adopted, there was no further closeness between them though, and over time he resigned himself to the knowledge that she didn't, and never would, see him that way.

But he still couldn't bring himself to stay away. Not after all the time he'd spent with his eyes closed to her predicament before.

After watching her sort through the tattered, dirty pages they had collected from the street so many months ago, Edward eventually loaned her an old laptop so she could begin to salvage what was left of her novel. On occasion, he found himself accidentally reading the smudged pages as he worked to help her with everything she needed to learn about using the device. Each time, her written words swirled around him the same way that her few spoken ones had the first few times they had met. Her prose sounded like her eyes had always looked to him – both beautiful and sad.

It was during one of those times, when he had idly gotten lost in the web of her words, that he felt her eyes on him. _Looking_ at him. He blushed, glancing up shyly to find her staring at his face as he began to fumble with the pages, searching for the right words with which to apologize.

"It's OK," she said quietly. Even at a whisper, her voice still spoke more loudly and with more strength than it ever had before James had been killed all those many months ago. Pressing her thumb against the side of his palm, she urged, "You can read."

So when she turned back to the glowing screen again, he did.

For much longer than he meant to, he let himself become engrossed with her words. Almost forgetting himself completely, he fell into her portrayal of a life spent in quiet captivity, feeling too tiny and insignificant to be noticed, even. After a half dozen pages or so, he found something that made him stop completely.

There, in her softly flowing hand, he found a character that looked like him. A man with eyes that saw the girl who felt too tiny to be seen.

A man who saved her just by noticing her, and by offering her his hand.

"You see?" Her voice was still soft, but it was resonant, and it spoke to the parts of him that had always longed to hold her. "When I told you that you saved me?"

His guilt spoke before his longing could. "I wish - I just - "

Her fingertips across his lips were a revelation, touching gently there before moving down across the line of his jaw. "Don't wish," she breathed.

So he didn't. Instead he _did_.

Asking with his eyes and with his words, he sought out her permission, knowing he could never take that away from her. That after all she had been through, he could never presume anything from her.

It happened just the way he had imagined it when he was lying in that hospital bed, both her smile and her whispered yes. And then, so gently, so tentatively, he kissed her.

When she finally pulled his lips away from hers, she rested her forehead against his brow, and with her tiny hand, she touched his chest above his heart.

Quietly, she whispered, "I see you, too."


	10. Private Property

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally let ahizelm and bmango goad me into writing alternate pairings for them, too.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 4  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/cV9Hl9)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Jasper  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

Sometimes, I like to sit and watch the trains go by.

They roll along the tracks about a quarter mile behind my house. Late into the evening, I can hear them, powerful rumbles that seep through the earth and into my dreams. Unable to sleep, sometimes I pull on a robe and shoes and make my way down the path I know so well, standing amidst the trees and watching the glistening flickers of moonlight across the infinite string of boxcars. And I wonder to myself where it is that they might lead.

Sitting on the hillside, I feel the vibrations of the giant wheels moving through my body, the relentless racing of diesel engines, and of cargo and of people.

And sometimes, in those windows, I imagine I see his face.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

He swept into town on a southbound train, leaping from its side as it slowed to round the curve behind my property. I watched his softly loping gate and the way his hair seemed to glimmer, brilliant and golden, in the sun.

For days, he seemed to haunt the site of the tracks, his camera constantly clicking and his hand moving fervently over the pages of a leather journal. From the window over the sink in my kitchen, I could make him out, sometimes in silhouette against grasses and trees. Sometime in startling color.

If he ever saw me, he gave no sign.

The day I happened to stumble upon his campsite, he was sitting on a log, bent over those pages, liquid ink flowing from blackened fingers, his face sun-stained and smudged with dirt, but somehow still not in any way unclean.

I could feel my husband's long lost voice, whispering warnings in my head as I approached, captivated by the line of beard along his jaw and by the sparkling of sapphire eyes in the sun.

My husband would have told me to bring a gun.

"You know that this is private property, don't you?" My voice and posture were both strong, but my heart was racing when he lifted his hand to his brow to block the sun, the pen still in his grasp and the expression so familiar to my lonely eyes.

He smirked, a smile of invitation as he gestured at the small pile of his backpack and sleeping bag. "I didn't realize that I was intruding, Ma'am."

With an echoing smile, I said, quietly, "You're not."

That night, he shared his supper with me, cooking over a fire made from the wood he had gathered on the other side of the tracks.

Together, we laid on our backs on the sleeping bag he'd spread out beneath us, looking up at stars that seemed infinitely far away and talking as if we had known each other forever. Trolling through memories I had not sifted through in years, I talked about the hole in my life that my husband had left when he died.

He listened.

And then, in quiet tones, he told me about his year-long journey around the country and about the answers he was seeking.

Even if, in the small handful of days and nights that we spent together, he could never seem to articulate the questions to me.

The next day, I met him out by the tracks in the full light of the sun, the light dazzling on his skin and on the soft curls of golden hair around his face. I watched him as he wrote and as he captured images of light on blades of grass, and then I invited him to a meal and a bath in my home.

Scrubbed of all the detritus of travel and of a life spent out of doors, he emerged from my bathroom, glowing and pink, his chin and cheeks naked and his face so much younger-looking for the lack of wear. When he cleared his throat and asked me where his towel should go, I turned and found myself pressed almost to his chest, breathing in a scent of man and woods and soap. Struck by a flash of desire, the likes of which I had not felt in years, I raised my hand unwittingly to the shaven edge of his jaw, tracing it softly and watching as he swallowed.

I took the towel and I fed him.

But it wasn't until he made to leave, to return to the woods and to his solitary slumber beneath the stars that I offered him the use of my bed.

We tangled together in the darkness of a night spent in comfort and warmth and communion. He found the skin that had begun to feel like a shroud of mourning, touching softly at the parts of my body that felt like they had been waiting all along for only him. When I undressed him, it was with unsteady hands and a racing heart, tasting the pieces as I revealed them, and speaking to him silently that the answers he was seeking might be here.

By the time I woke, my bed was cold again, his warmth clearly having long since retreated, until the only signs that he had come to stay at all were the taste of him in my mouth and the scent of his body on my sheets.

It wasn't until two days later that I found the leather-bound journal he had left on my kitchen table, the final page of which said simply,

_From Jasper to Bella - in hopes that we both may find what we are looking for._

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

I flip through those worn pages even now, the scent of him lingering in the very fibers of the paper, the taste of him on my tongue as I let my eyes trace longingly over the curls of ink.

I've read the words so many times now. They are those of a man who is lost and scarred and searching for the sake of searching, never content to just allow himself to simply be.

Tucking the tattered book into the pocket of my jeans, I sit myself down again in the grass on the hill, feeling in my bones that subtle shaking of the earth that tells me that something is coming.

Sometimes, I like to sit and watch the trains go by.

Hoping that someday, just maybe, they will bring him to my door once more.


	11. Complicated

Thanks to antiaol and bmango.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally, apparently, I also write crackfic.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 23  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/bDkgKK)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

I was a pretty simple guy when it came down to it. I liked to smoke, drink, fuck and play.

Simple.

So you can imagine that I was pretty fucking pissed when my whole life suddenly got really, really complicated one day. One second, I felt like maybe I was coming down with a case of the sniffles, and the next I found myself waking up after what felt like the worst bender in the history of benders, staring into a pair of freaky yellow eyes and feeling like if I didn't eat a person for lunch, I was going to lose my fucking shit.

Yeah, like I said, complicated.

"Edward? Can you hear me, Edward?"

All it took was freaky-yellow-eyed dude tapping my shoulder for me to go into this slow-mo Matrix shit , pulling a double back flip away from him, a somersault and throwing in maybe just a little bit of jazz hands at the end to show off.

"Whoa." Yeah, I was in the Matrix, alright. Keanu Reeves vocabulary and all.

I stared back at freaky-yellow-eyed dude from about ten feet away. He had blond hair cut in a really lame 80s mini-mullet and skin so pale it kind of made me want to go buy him some Vitamin D supplements or something.

"I know this must be terribly disorienting," he said aloud. But what I heard was _Oh my God he's hot._ _He's so hot. Even hotter than before I bit him. Bite-ably hot. Wicked hot. Like, seriously seriously oh my god he's hot. _

I chuckled and ran a hand though my hair, turning to look at my reflection in the mirror, because yeah, I was pretty easy to look at, especially with my clear, green –

"What the _fuck_?" I swore.

My clear, green eyes … weren't. They weren't green. They were red. Freaky red.

And I looked like I might be in need of some fucking Vitamin D myself.

My head flipped around to look at Yellow Eyes again, who now looked seriously nervous, and even though he wasn't moving his mouth, in that same, floating voice from before, I heard _Keep it together, Carlisle. Do not antagonize the newborn, extremely fuck-hot vampire you created. Repeat, do NOT – _

"Vampire? VAMPIRE?"

Those yellow eyes widened.

"What? How?" he sniveled. In the background there was a silent chant of _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. _

I decided to take a chance. "Look, Carlisle, is it?" He nodded and gaped. "OK, Carlisle. We have a couple options here. A – you tell me what the fuck is going on, or B – I kick the shit out of you. Got it?"

Honestly, I was kind of feeling like kicking the shit out of him regardless.

"How much do you remember?" _Please don't remember me whacking off while you were changing. _

"You did _what_ while I was changing?"

Carlisle cowered even more if that was possible. "Nothing! Nothing." _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

I struck up what I hoped was an imposing posture. "Start talking. Now."

"OK," he stammered, holding up his hands like I was about to attack. Which was definitely a distinct possibility. "My name is Carlisle Cullen. I am a … vampire, and I was also your doctor. You were dying of the flu." _And you were hot. Really, really, really hot._

"The flu? Seriously? No one dies of the flu."

"It was a, um, very virulent strain." _Like the strain in my pants. Oh my God you're hot. _

"You're shitting me."

_I'm shitting him._ "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

_Of course I am. I just needed to bite you. You were so hot._ "Of course I'm not."

"Wait – what's this about biting?"

For being a pretty pale dude, he suddenly got even paler.

I heard the voice again, but his mouth still wasn't moving. _Edward? Can you hear me?_

"Yeah," I answered absently, before realizing that might have been a really stupid idea.

Those freaky yellow eyes lit up. _How about now? Can you hear me now?_

"Yes," I replied warily.

_How about now?_

"Am I in a fucking Verizon commercial? Because if your network shows up now I'm going to kick its ass, too."

As if on cue, at exactly that moment, a whole crew of more freaky yellow-eyed people … vampires … things barged in.

"Stop thinking, Carlisle! He can read your mind!" What appeared to be a twelve year old girl was lunging for Carlisle, but he batted her off.

"Yeah, Alice, I basically just figured that out," he huffed, looking like someone had just stolen his puppy. _Annoying fucking pixie._

For once, at least, I could agree with his thoughts.

"Wait, I can read minds?" I asked.

_Ugh, why do the pretty ones always have to be so dumb?_

My eyes jerked up and over to a fierce-looking blond. And then I smirked. She scowled. I could tell this was going to be an awesome relationship already.

Over the course of the next hour or so, I got filled in on all kinds of details about how, yes, we were all vampires, and no it wasn't as cool as it looked in the movies. I also got introduced to a whole bunch of people, none of whom I expected to ever see again, because this party was lame. Really lame.

When they had more or less talked themselves out (even though in their heads they were still prattling on), I finally sat down.

And summarily broke the chair.

"Fuck, I need a drink."

"Oh yes, you must be incredibly thirsty. How thoughtless of us," Carlisle fretted. "We can go right through the woods here. There are plenty of deer, and maybe even some decent-sized predators if we're lucky." _Please let me get lucky. Pretty pretty pretty please let me get lucky._

I looked up at him in disgust, both for his obvious inability to read the situation and for the increasingly annoying series of images of me sucking his less-than-impressive, ridiculously white cock.

"No," I seethed. "A fucking drink. Whiskey? Vodka? Hell, paint thinner would probably work at this point."

"Um…"

Shit. They didn't drink, did they?

"We only drink blood." _Mmmmm blood._

"Shit." Feeling like I was about to lose it, I started ruffling through my pockets, looking for my Marlboros and my lighter. When I finally found them, I grabbed them out, only to have everybody step back about a foot.

"Um, Edward?" the little pixie asked.

"Yeah?" I opened the pack and pulled a cigarette to my lips.

The blond, Rosalie, was in front of me before I knew it, batting the cigarette away from my mouth. _Fucking idiot_, she thought.

"Didn't you read the fine print, you fucking idiot?"

"Fine print? Um, Chuckles here didn't exactly give me a consent form or anything before he decided I was too 'bite-able' to resist," I sneered, making a jerking-off motion with my hand in Carlisle's direction.

"Hey!" An image of him biting my shoulder while burying himself in my ass wafted across my mind and I tried not to puke.

"No," Rosalie insisted. And then she made a grab for my junk.

"What the fuck is up with all you vampires trying to get in my pants?" I screamed, jumping up and back. Although, honestly, I really didn't mind the idea of _her_ getting her hands a little closer to my cock. But I really didn't want to encourage Carlisle. Pretending to be asexual seemed like it might be the way to go.

She slapped me, grabbed my collar, and forcibly sat me back down in the chair, while verbally and mentally calling me an idiot again. She managed to wrestle the top of my pants down just a bit, revealing an inch of hip.

And a tattoo.

"What the fuck?"

"Fine print," she grumbled. "Right there. Read."

...

_This vampire contains 100% venom and venom-based crystalline solids._  
_Wash vampire in warm sudsy water and air dry. Do not place in dryer. _

_WARNING: Vampire is not a toy and should not be left unattended with small children or pets. _  
_Or anyone, really. Unless you want them to get eaten._

_WARNING: If vampire saliva or ejaculate is ingested, please call poison control center immediately._

_WARNING: Vampires are highly flammable. Do not use near or around an open flame._

_..._

"The Volturi," Alice whispered knowingly. _Too bad he's not a Versace._

"Volturi?"

Rosalie waved her hand like it was no big deal. "Bunch of thousand year old OCD bureaucrats in a tower. They think they govern over 'vampire-kind' but they basically just like putting warning signs on things."

"But we really are quite flammable," Carlisle added meekly. In the time we'd been ogling my hip, he'd progressed from a fantasy of giving it to me up the ass to me taking him up against a wall while he sucked on a sparkly pink dildo. He'd also managed to find and wrap himself in a fire blanket.

And it was in that moment that I knew that I was fucked.

But not by Carlisle. That dude was totally not getting anywhere near my ass.

oOo~OOO~oOo

"Hey." The soft voice beside me scared the shit out of me.

Which was pretty hard to do, what with vampires not actually, you know, shitting.

Trying to figure out why the hell I hadn't heard the person coming, I glanced to the side, only to feel my freaky sort-of-red, sort-of-yellow eyes get big.

Because the girl standing next to me was _smokin'._ As in attractive. And also as in, she was holding up a cigarette.

"You got a light?" she asked, dipping her head slightly and batting her eyelashes at me. I stared, wondering if she had a stye or pink-eye or one of those nasty eye-zit things that humans got. Because she didn't stop at simple eyelash-batting. She just kept _blinking._ And then blinking. And then blinking some more.

She finally stopped blinking just long enough to simultaneously undo a button on her shirt and bite her lip. Which gave me all kinds of ideas about biting her lip, too. And maybe her tits.

At that point, I took advantage of the opportunity to smirk at her with my patented lady-killer grin. Mind you, in the couple of months since I'd become undead, it had resulted in my actually _killing_ more ladies than it had in my nailing them. But still, it seemed worth a try. Leaning back against the wall, I pulled a little vampire stunt and flicked out my lighter so fast that she couldn't have possibly seen me doing it.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem to impress her even nearly as much as it seemed to freak her the fuck out.

The fact that I had also managed to whip out an oven mitt before actually flicking the lighter might have had something to do with that as well.

She swallowed and gave me a nervous look, but then shrugged and blinked some more and leaned in. At which point I realized three things.

1) That she was the most delicious-smelling thing I had ever smelled in my entire life (or lack thereof).

2) That she was probably borderline mentally retarded because she still hadn't had a single thought in the entire time that she'd been standing there.

and

3) That I could totally see down her shirt.

"Um, thanks," she said, pulling back. I rubbed the oven mitt across my face quickly to wipe up the venom I'd managed to drool all over my chin from the combined effects of both smelling and staring at her, before lighting my own cigarette, gripping it carefully with my covered hand and leaning back against the wall again. Without showing her my teeth, I smiled at her, trying to look cool (well, as cool as anyone can look, smoking while wearing an oven mitt) and acting like it was perfectly normal to be a nicotine-addicted, occasionally-vegetarian vampire, chatting up a potential snack.

"So what's your name?" I said casually while taking a drag.

"Um, Bella." She glanced up at me and wrapped her lips around the cigarette.

I almost ate her right then and there.

And I couldn't even decide if I meant that in a psychopathic killer way or in a horny motherfucker way.

"I'm Edward," I said, before frowning at the cigarette I had managed to crush in my blood/pussy lusting enthusiasm.

"Cool." She finished her cigarette in silence and then kicked off the wall, making me frown.

Right up until she turned around and said, "So... wanna fuck?"

oOo~OOO~oOo

"Yeah, right there, Edward. Oh God. So fucking - " I had my whole forehead pressed to her neck, trying not to breathe or accidentally bite her or anything, and I was basically fingering the shit out of her. After what felt like about five years of diddling around down there, she finally clenched around my fingers and rolled her eyes back in her head. I rolled my eyes, too. But only because her O-face was so weird.

And because she kept blinking at me.

That shit was freaky.

"Fuck me, Edward. Please. God, I want it so fucking bad."

She didn't have to tell me twice. About a millisecond later, I was buried balls-deep in her, thrusting for all I was worth and making a dumb-ass looking O-face myself for all I knew. I didn't really care, considering I was probably going to eat her as soon as I was done fucking her. And totally in that psychopathic killer way.

Over and over again, I pounded into her, until even I was picturing a little line of judges sitting on the sidelines, holding up perfect 10s. This whole vampire stamina thing was awesome.

Finally, I couldn't take it any more. Living in a house full of horny vampires who liked to get it on basically every second of every day had given me more than a little bit of pent up sexual energy, and it had gotten to the point where even Carlisle's sick-fuck fantasies couldn't keep me from getting (admittedly petrified) wood at the drop of a dime.

I came.

Hard.

Dismounting, I laid down to the side and basked for a minute, idly wondering again if this Bella chick really was retarded, what with her freaky silent brain thing. After a little bit of panting, she turned into me and ran a tentative hand down my chest, and I looked over at her with a pretty cocky look.

Because I was totally cocky.

About my cock.

"So, are you, um, done?" she asked, and I boggled. I mean it was pretty fucking obvious right? I'd made my O-face and everything.

"Um, yeah."

"Oh." It was silent. And _awk_ward.

"Well, um …" It wasn't like I expected a medal or anything, but I was at least thinking she could say _something_. 'Edward, you are a sex machine who has rocked my world' would have sufficed.

"It's OK," she said. "I mean, it happens to all guys sometimes, right?"

Whaaa?

"Happens?" I glanced over at the clock then. And slapped my head.

Thirty seconds. We'd fucked for thirty seconds.

I groaned.

Because while I had, in fact, pounded her three thousand, nine hundred twenty-two times, I had pounded her three thousand, nine hundred twenty-two times at vampire speed.

So, like I said.

Thirty seconds.

"Fuck, listen," I said, but then I stopped. I mean, was I really going to explain that shit to her?

Frustrated and yet also feeling really sexually satisfied, I reached for my jacket and pulled out my Marlboros and my oven mitt again. I was just lighting up when she blinked and I saw her whole face brighten.

"OMG, is that a tattoo?" she said, diving for my hip. And accidentally kneeing me in the junk.

And making me drop my lighter.

Onto my junk.

My incredibly, incredibly flammable junk.

"Fuck," I hissed as my whole lower half threatened to burst into an instant conflagration. I batted Bella out of the way, trying to use her quilt as a fire blanket while she was still busy sitting there blinking at my flaming (but not in a gay way) dick.

Just as the flames started to lick at my chest, I heard a jumble of voices outside the door and watched in slack-jawed amazement as a whole clown car worth of short-bus special vampires beat down the door. They were all led by Alice, who was holding out her hand and screaming.

"No! Stop, Edward! If you light that cigarette you're going to - "

She stopped on a dime and started sniffing at the air, presumably perturbed by the scents of melting polyester and increasingly evaporating vampire. For a fraction of a second, her eyes searched the room until they finally zoomed in on what was left of my dick. Her jaw dropped. Then she shrugged.

"Oh, well then. Never mind." _At least he thought to take off his clothes before accidentally setting himself on fire._

_Fucking idiot_. Rosalie sauntered into the room behind her, looking similarly nonplussed.

Both the girls sighed and were turning as if to go when they were practically bowled over by a hysterical, dry-sobbing Carlisle, whose thoughts were now fixated on an image of himself, pulling my naked, charred but still-sexually-functional body out of the conflagration. His mullet looked even more fucked than usual as he ran into the room, took one look at me and fell to his knees. I snickered at the knowledge that, at least in that respect, this was straight out of one of his stupid fantasies (except in his fantasies my dick had been smoking hot in a much less literal way), and raised my hands to cover my ears as he went all Darth Vader from those craptastic Star Wars prequels, screaming, "_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!_"

Fortunately, at that point, both my hands and ears were more ash than anything else, so I didn't have to listen for long.

And it was only then, as I let my increasingly cinder-like eyes dart between the retarded, blinking girl who thought I was a shitty lay, the most useless psychic in the entire universe and the sick, gay fucker who turned me into a vampire in the first place, that I decided going up in flames, naked and wearing an oven mitt wasn't the worst fate in the universe.

Because seriously. Spending an eternity with those assholes would have been way, way worse.


	12. Dreams

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write canon-compatible drabbles.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 12  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/98RjCt)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

After Edward leaves, Bella's dreams turn twisted. Strange.

There are the nightmares, of course. The deep rushes of terror and images of teeth and wolves, her body waking bathed in sweat.

But it is the quietly heartbreaking dreams that bother her more.

Ones that show Edward's mother's hands grasping the red teapot she always used when it was just Bella and her. In the dream, those hands warp, wrinkling and aging until they are her dead grandmother's hands instead.

Bella wakes shaking instead of screaming after these ones.

Feeling more certain than ever that everyone she loves will leave her.


	13. Visions

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write sorta/kinda canon-compatible drabbles.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 14  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/b3y4I0)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Alice  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

The vision is sudden and unbidden, the colors of it so intense that Alice knows its fruition is imminent. There are clear images of brown eyes and red ones and an open space full of dying flowers.

A frightened whisper, spoken in the voice she has missed so much.

"Laurent!"

After that, the vision fades to static, but there are still echoes. Repercussions. Fuzzy images of her brother, stepping out into sunlight, and of tears.

Alice had promised Edward she wouldn't interfere.

It was a promise meant to be broken.

She texts Bella with just three words.

"Climb a tree."


	14. Public Spectacle

Thanks to **SorceressCirce**, **bmango** and **ahizelm.**

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write fluffy, smutty slash.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 22  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/ao2qCM)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward and Jasper  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

"I can't _believe_ you're making me do this," I hissed, adjusting my glasses for what had to be the thousandth time and glancing around. My palms were sweating. Beneath the ridiculous, polyester, tab-collared monstrosity he had fitted me into, my neck was sweating.

Fuck, _all_ of me was sweating.

"Relax, Edward," he said, his voice as calm and smooth as ever. I couldn't decide whether to roll my eyes in annoyance or press my ass back into him when he snuck a hand into the back pocket of my powder-blue (also polyester) bell bottoms.

In the end, I went with annoyance and shrugged him off. Not that it deterred him at all.

"Like it's possible to relax in these ridiculous clothes," I huffed, tugging at my collar and batting at his hands again as he tried to nuzzle his nose into my neck. "Natural fibers, Jasper. You know I have sensitive skin."

"Do I ever," he growled, nipping at my ear, and I had to fight off my arousal to remain annoyed with him.

All over again, I cursed that ridiculous bet I had let him trick me into. I should have known the sneaky bastard was paying attention when I made him watch the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy with me. Six times. And yet I was still completely taken aback when he managed to answer every one of those stupid online trivia questions correctly.

And now here I was. Edward Cullen. Associate Professor of Engineering at Northwestern University and devoted life partner to one Jasper Whitlock. Dressed like a fucking pimp.

And (mostly) willingly walking into a underground gay porn theater in the heart of Boystown.

"C'mon, Edward," he murmured in my ear, his voice so low and sexy it should have been illegal as he coaxed me in and through the doors. His hand had drifted from my back pocket to my front pocket, and even as uptight as I was, I couldn't help but shudder when his thumb grazed the edge of my cock through the fabric. "Just think about it, baby. The 70s. Public, illicit porn. Anonymous sex with gorgeous men. Pretend you don't find that hot."

"Yes, Jasper," I croaked, losing my voice when he bit down hard on my neck. "I find contemplating the birthplace of the modern AIDS epidemic incredibly arousing."

He ignored me and kept teasing me through my pocket as he steered us over toward the ticket counter. I stifled a moan, trying to pretend that I wasn't hard and aching for him.

And that the ticketing agent couldn't see _everything_ through these ridiculous pants.

In an effort to distract myself, I glanced around at the posters that were hanging everywhere, advertising tonight's event. It was a retro night in every sense of the word, including authentic, 70s-era porn. There was something both exciting and disconcerting about it all, considering that Jasper and I were barely alive when these movies were filmed.

My attention was drawn back to what was happening right in front of me when Jasper flashed his trademark grin at the boy behind the plexiglass, and I found my brow furrowing behind my glasses.

The fucker was flirting.

Worse, considering how hot he looked in his wide-lapeled jacket and flared, tight-fitting jeans, and how shamelessly the twink in the booth was ogling him, it seemed like he was doing a damn good job.

Even after more than ten years together, that stuff still drove me crazy, and I felt a little stab of insecurity, wondering as always why my sexy, adventurous partner chose to be with the most boring man on the planet. Ever the professor, I harrumphed in annoyance and elbowed Jasper in the ribs, only to have him laugh and grab my arm, pulling me closer. With the hand that wasn't holding me, he grabbed his change and the tickets, nudging me until we were out of the way.

"Jealous much?" he whispered in my ear. I rolled my eyes dismissively and squared my shoulders, but he wasn't deterred. Pressing me against the wall, he kissed and sucked his way down my neck, holding himself just close enough that I could feel how excited he was, his erection thick and hard against my own.

As much as I wanted to just give in, I half-heartedly pushed him away. "Honestly, Jasper. Here?" I was shooting for annoyed impatience, but it was pretty hard to feign when I was aroused and panting.

He chuckled and ran his nose along my jaw. "Where better, Edward?" His hand at the back of my neck wrenched my head up so that I was forced to look around. "We're positively tame compared to most of these kids. No one would bat an eye if I sank down and sucked you off right here."

I twitched against his hip and quietly groaned.

"Well," he murmured, nibbling at my earlobe and reaching down to flick his thumb over the head of my cock through my pants. "They _might_ bat an eye at the fact that I can fit all of _that_ in my throat."

"Fuck, Jasper." I gave up and grabbed his head, kissing him roughly and wondering again how we had managed to keep this going between us after all these years. We were still silly and playful. Loving and passionate.

And horny as fuck, even though we were pushing forty.

Jasper bit down on my tongue and grabbed my ass before breaking away. He gestured with his head toward the curtains over the entrance to the theater, flashing that damn smirk at me again, and I was left with no real choice but to sigh and follow.

Inside, it was already dark, the rows of vinyl seats illuminated only by the glow of the screen. As we walked in, my eyes grew wide, and I almost tripped over my own feet.

Yes, the images on the screen were absolutely vulgar, the projector showing a grainy, slightly yellow-tinged film of two men noisily fucking on a beach.

But the things going on around us in real life were much, much worse.

I had to avert my eyes as Jasper guided me to an unoccupied row of seats, but I still couldn't wash the images of what was happening not five feet away from us from the backs of my eyes, nor hide the cringe I had at the idea of sitting in these seats. "You can't possibly expect me – " I hissed, resisting as he motioned for me to sit down.

"Will you relax already? I promise, we'll burn these clothes as soon as we get home. Unless you've gotten attached to them..."

"Hardly," I scoffed, acquiescing. "Though I heartily doubt they'll actually _burn_..."

"Yes, yes, synthetic fibers are the devil. I get it," he rasped, descending on me as soon as I allowed myself to be pressed into the seat. He swallowed any further concerns I might have voiced with his mouth, kissing me hard, his hand moving tantalizingly over my chest and pressing against my cock. "I promise, we'll get you back into your tweed just as soon as we get home. And as soon as I get you out of these." As he spoke, he lowered my zipper, his hand snaking into my (100% cotton) briefs and palming me roughly.

I groaned at the contact, the sound embarrassingly loud, even with everything else going on around us. In spite of how good it felt to have him touching me that way, I fumbled with my glasses and tried to pretend to remain unaffected. "You know me, Jasper," I panted.

"Yeah, I do," he whispered in my ear. His hand that wasn't massaging slippery precum all around my head pressed at my jaw, directing my eyes to the screen, where the action had shifted to an incredibly improbable shot of two very limber boys blowing each other in the back of a station wagon. "Well enough to know that no matter how much you protested, you would totally get your rocks off over this."

I moaned even harder against his lips as he started to stroke me in earnest, my eyes glued to the screen and my hands clutching at his hair. He began to bite and lick his way down my chin and across my throat, opening the buttons on my shirt and snickering lightly when he uncovered the big, metal peace sign hanging from a leather cord beneath the fabric.

"You're the asshole who made me wear it," I said, laughing too, and then I winced when he nudged it to the side and snagged some of my (admittedly sparse) chest hair.

"We should have gotten you a wig for your chest," he mumbled, and I could feel his amusement in the shaking of his body as he slipped to his knees between my legs. "Totally not period authentic."

"Shut it, Whitlock," I said dismissively, but my fist just twisted harder in his hair as his breath floated across my abdomen.

"Really, Cullen?" He was looking at me with a smirk. "I thought you liked my mouth open."

"I do," I laughed, gasping. "Maybe I should shove something in it to keep you quiet then?"

"Mmm, please." My eyes just about rolled back in my head when he pulled me out and began licking teasingly at the underside. Once the initial shock of pleasure passed, I took a second to open my eyes and glance around the theater, praying that nobody was looking - and praying doubly hard that I wouldn't run into any of my students here.

"Focus, Edward. Please." Jasper was looking up at me plaintively, his breath hot as it washed across me. "Do you want me to suck your cock or not?"

"Give me something to focus on," I whispered huskily, pushing slightly at the back of his head. Finally, he stopped tormenting me and opened wide, slipping the head of my dick between his lips and sucking gently; my fingers tightened in his hair as my head fell backward and I tried not to scream.

The best thing about being with one man for over a decade? He knew _exactly_ how to drive me crazy.

The worst thing? Fucker used it against me. Constantly.

"Fuck, Jasper," I moaned, trying to stay as quiet as possible as my hips nudged my cock upward, encouraging him to take more of me into his mouth.

He pulled off of me instead, and I almost whimpered. "_Relax_," he implored again, his eyes flicking up toward the movie screen as he grinned. "Enjoy the view."

"I'll tell you what I'd enjoy."

"Believe me, baby, I know." Without any further ado, he plunged his mouth down over me, taking me the way that no one else ever had or ever could. The way that, honestly, I knew no one else ever would.

This whole thing might have been about anonymous sex and the thrill of reenacting a little slice of history.

But really, any sexual adventure Jasper and I had was only an adventure because it was _us_.

He was all I wanted.

And fuck me if it wasn't awesome that what _he_ wanted was to give me a blow job in public while I watched porn.

I gasped aloud as he started to move up and down, the flat of his tongue teasing me and massaging the head with every stroke, his hands alternately pushing to keep my hips still and playing with my balls. Enjoying the sensation, I carefully unwound my hand from his hair, keeping my palm on the back of his head in a softer, guiding motion. I let my eyes settle on the spectacle in front of me, feeling the deep thrill of doing something so illicit. Mostly, I watched the images on the screen, though occasionally, I also let my eyes drift to the other couples and - I was surprised to discover - groups engaging in similar activities to what Jasper and I were doing. Once, I even met the lust-filled eyes of another man across the room.

Rather than move to cover myself, I found myself shifting my hand to obscure Jasper's face, feeling suddenly protective and incredibly grateful for this gift.

Because as much as I might have protested, he was right. I was getting my rocks off over this.

And I was about the get them off indeed. Imminently.

"Jasper," I moaned, flexing my hips and glancing down to find his eyes watching mine. He could tell I was close, intensifying what he was doing here and easing off there, just the way he knew would push me quickly over the edge.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," I chanted as my orgasm washed over me. I exploded violently, everything made more intense by the fact that we were doing this the way we were, where we were. Jasper didn't pull away, and I didn't warn him, knowing that if he didn't want to swallow, he would get out of the way. He didn't, taking everything I had as I released in a long, hard stream, jerking and whimpering as light exploded behind my eyes.

When I came back to my senses, Jasper was massaging my thigh with one hand and tucking me back into my pants with the other, a smirk playing over those perfect lips as he stared up at me.

"Enjoy that, Professor?"

I rolled my eyes and tugged at him to bring him back up to sit beside me. Kissing him more gently than was probably appropriate for the venue, I shot him my own lazy, satiated grin. "You know I did."

He nodded. "There may have been a couple signs."

I kissed him again for a few moments before sighing contentedly. "I love you. And you're right. This may be sick, unhygienic, and uncomfortable. But I fucking love it."

Jasper just laughed. "I knew you would. Now, if you'd like to make good on that bet … "

I sighed, less contentedly. And then, refusing to let myself think about what else might have happened on this floor, I released his lips, kissing down his body and sliding to my knees.

The secret, of course, was that I fucking loved that part of the arrangement, too.


	15. Photographs

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write post-BD canon-compatible drabbles.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 11  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/9UsOGu)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

Bella's entrance into their coven doesn't change much about how the Cullens live their lives. Her presence is a quiet one; her needs, once her newborn lust is sated, are few.

The one thing that does change is that an extra item gets packed into the car when they head out on hunting trips that take them wide and far.

A camera.

She grins self-consciously when Edward asks her about it.

She knows it is naïve, but she doesn't care.

She's still new enough to a life of infinite remembrance to believe that some moments are worth capturing for good.


	16. Impatience

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write post-BD canon-compatible drabbles.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 8  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/9q8uJq)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

Fifteen years later than they had expected, Edward and Bella finally enroll at Dartmouth. They giggle over course selections and majors, delighting in the idea of trying something new together.

They laugh even harder at the fact that, as freshmen, they are required to live in dorms.

They make housing selections and even allow Esme to help them decorate. It's rare, however, that they spend much time there.

The only times the do spend the night, it is for one reason only.

Because they simply cannot keep their hands and mouths to themselves for long enough to run back home.


	17. Let Go

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally get annoyed at Edward when he's being a controlling bitch.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 20  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/9WwXXs)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

"Damn it, Bella, I said no, and that's final!" Edward's hand smacked the dashboard hard enough to make me jerk the wheel slightly, sending the car over the rumble strips. Without even seeming to think about it, he reached across me to put his hand over mine to steady it. His jaw was clenched tightly when he hissed, "Jesus Christ, will you please watch where you're going?"

I didn't know why, but even after all of the other ridiculous little things he had done to piss me off today, _that_ was what finally broke me.

_His_ fucking hand. On _my_ fucking steering wheel. After I'd spent half the morning convincing him that yes, I really should be allowed to drive my own damn car.

I was done.

Pure rage was making my arms shake as I swatted his hand away, flashed my blinker, and pulled over to the side of the road.

"What on earth are you - "

Refusing to even so much as look at him, I hit the button to unlock the doors before returning my hand to the ten o'clock position on the wheel.

Because lord knows we wouldn't want me to drive improperly.

"Get. Out. Of. _My._ Car."

In my peripheral vision, I could see him rolling his eyes and reaching toward me again.

"_Don't_," I growled, finally facing him and holding nothing back from my expression.

His eyes widened, and I internally gloated over the fact the he seemed like he might actually be taking me seriously for once, but I was still too angry to smile.

"Bella, love - "

"Don't touch me, don't talk to me and do _not_ call me 'love,'" I bristled. "The only thing you need to be doing is opening that door and getting out of my car."

He glanced around nervously and ran a hand through his hair, as if it was only just now dawning on him that I might really be kicking him out.

I followed his eyes, but there wasn't much to see. We were literally in the middle of nowhere. Well, the middle of rural Arizona to be more precise, but it might as well have been nowhere. Everywhere you looked, it was just asphalt and sand, with only the occasional cactus or tumbleweed to break up the monotony. I hazarded one glance in the rear-view mirror, confirming that I could in fact still see the telephone booth next to the side of the road that I remembered passing a minute or two ago.

Because yes, I was furious with him. But I didn't actually want him to die out here.

When he still didn't budge, I slipped the shoulder strap of the seat belt behind my back without unbuckling and leaned over to open his door for him. I also rooted around in the cup holder where I kept loose change – even though it "practically invited criminals" – and plucked out two quarters that I pressed into his palm.

Sitting back up in my seat and returning my hands to the wheel, I glared at him expectantly.

His one fist had closed around the two quarters, but the other hand was still extended out toward me. "Please Bella, be reasonable."

I huffed. He was using _that_ tone. The condescending one that made me feeling like his daughter instead of his fiancee.

Like he thought I was an idiot who should be handled with kid gloves and patted on the head so I wouldn't have a tantrum.

Tantrum my ass.

In a voice so cold it chilled even me, I hissed, "Get out."

For a moment, he just sat there staring at me while I kept my gaze locked firmly on the horizon, doing my best not to let the tears playing at the edges of my eyes fall over. I cursed myself that my emotions were always so clear on my face, and that even when I was so angry I could scream I always ended up turning into a sobbing mess.

Finally, he sighed and began to unbuckle his seat belt. I didn't stop him or look at him.

It wasn't an irritated sigh. Hell, it wasn't even his patented condescending one.

If anything it was just … defeated.

Without a word, he slowly climbed out of the car, his feet kicking up dust on the side of the road.

"Look, Bella, I'm sorry." I tried not to melt. "But - "

All I had to hear was that one little word, that one hint that he was about to try to argue with me again. I leaned over, glancing at him for just long enough to check that his hand wasn't actually in the doorjamb before I slammed the door in his face.

And then I peeled out as fast as I could go.

For as long as we lived, I would never forget the look on his face in my rearview mirror. It was so sad. So terrified and so crushed, his hand practically raking across his scalp, as he just stood there, disappearing into dust and distance, until he was so small, I couldn't read his expression any more.

I made it a full five minutes before all the tension and anger finally dissolved into tears. Thankful that there really wasn't anything on the road to keep my eyes on, I let it take me, crying those deep, hard sobs that wrack your entire body and make you choke. I smacked the steering wheel and jammed my fist into my thigh.

Then I tossed one of my angry chick CDs that Edward hated the most into the stereo and started singing along at the top of my lungs, trying to figure out how the hell we had gotten to this point.

It had started out so simply. So happily. We'd been staying at my mother's house in Phoenix, picking up the last of the things I'd still been storing in her attic and driving them halfway across the country to our new house in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Everything had been great. Edward had been adorable and devoted, still fawning over the fact that we'd managed to close on the house and that I'd finally agreed to marry him. My mother had been similarly ecstatic, asking to see the ring over and over again and shamelessly flirting with my fiancee and talking about how she couldn't wait until we started cranking out grandchildren for her.

Then I'd gotten the call from my publisher just before we'd left this morning, letting me know that I'd been invited to speak at a conference at NYU in the fall. It wasn't a huge conference or anything, but as a fledgling writer and community college professor, it was a major step for me. I was thrilled. And I'd been hoping Edward would be thrilled for me.

For years, Edward had been so supportive of me and all of my dreams. He was so successful in his career as an attorney, and had the resources to help me pursue the career in writing that I wanted.

The problem was that he was _so_ successful that I constantly felt inadequate – like I was a leech, letting him pay for the lion's share of our expenses. Furthermore, I was constantly cringing against the niggling fear that he was just indulging me in my little hobby, and that in the end, everything I was doing was unimportant and unnecessary.

So, the external validation of hearing that my work was being taken seriously enough for me to be invited to speak about it had had me walking on clouds.

And the resounding "No," that had come out of him the moment he'd glanced at his calendar had seen me hitting the ground so fast I could hear my bones crunch upon the impact.

"I'm sorry, Bella, but we have that benefit to go to that weekend for the firm, and I can't possibly get out of it." He'd put his calendar away, as if that was that, and as if my feelings on the matter were completely inconsequential.

"Well, I'm sorry _you're_ tied up, but I'm still going."

"Bella." He'd pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, looking up at me wearily. Talking to me patiently. Like I was a child. "You know I don't like the idea of you going to the city by yourself."

I'd recognized the look of fear in his eyes, lying just beneath the irritation and the condescension that were spelled out so clearly on his features. It was the same look he'd worn after I'd been mugged in LA back around the time we'd first started going steady. I'd managed to get away before the assholes could do anything more than cop a feel and grab my purse, but I swore Edward had been more shaken up by the experience than I had been. We'd made love fiercely afterward, his whole body trembling as he'd repeated over and over that he loved me and that he had no idea what he would do if anything ever happened to me, the most horrible, terrified expression playing on his face even as I was resting safe inside his arms.

I slammed on the brakes.

Because that expression was one I recognized, too It was the one Edward had just been wearing, standing at the side of the road watching my car disappear into the distance.

Looking for all intents and purposes like his grip on the world was slipping.

Shaking and sweating and sitting still in the middle of the deserted highway, I took a few deep, hard breaths before checking once more to make sure that no one was coming in either direction.

Then I sighed and turned the car around.

When I found him, Edward was sitting on the ground with his back up against the side of the telephone booth, his knees tucked up close to his chest and his chin resting on his arms, dust marring his perfect, expensive clothes. I turned around again so that the car was pointed in the right direction on the side of the road before parking and walking over to him.

He didn't look up at me when I stood in front of him, but even at this angle, I could see that his eyes were red, his face sweaty and smudged and his hair a disaster. I waited for a second to see if he was going to react, but he just sat there, staring off into the distance and looking for all the world like he had just lost his reason for existing.

Sighing, I eased myself down to sit beside him, mimicking his position with my side flush against his, and I leaned my head to rest on his shoulder. His only sign that he even noticed I was there was to uncurl his fist from where it was resting on his knee and extend his fingers so they brushed mine.

For a few minutes we sat there, roasting under the desert sun. We were clearly both still mad, but there was a certain sense of calm in the air now, too. We loved each other too much, and neither of us could bear to fight for long.

I was finally the one to break the silence, speaking quietly and calmly. "You know I'm going to New York for the conference, right?"

He sighed and turned his head so he could look at me, resting his cheek on his knee. "Yes," he sighed. "And you know that I am going to be a nervous wreck the entire time."

One corner of his lip twitched up, and I smiled to know that he had calmed down enough to at least be able to see how unreasonable he was being.

I shifted to kiss the hot, damp skin of his neck just above his collar, and I could feel him relax beneath my lips. "Yeah," I murmured. "I know."

After another few moments of silence, he sat up and let his legs splay out across the ground, the back of his head hitting the plexiglass behind us. "I'm so sorry, Bella. I know I acted like an ass."

I uncurled myself, too, sitting cross-legged in the sand facing him and putting some space between our bodies. It seemed wrong to be so far away from him though, so I reached out to take his hand in mine. "Yeah, you did."

"You know I only do it because I love you, right?"

I took a deep breath and exhaled it before speaking. "I know. But you also know that my career is important to me. I know it seems silly compared with what you do - "

"No, Bella," he interrupted, gripping my hand and waiting until I lifted my gaze to meet his. "Never speak that way about what you do. I'm so proud of you, and all I ever want to do if encourage you. I just … "

He trailed off, gulping.

Choosing my words carefully, I continued, "I know you believe in me. But I also know that I feel insignificant sometimes compared with you."

He shook his head. "I never, ever want you to feel that way."

We stared at each other silently. "Then you can't try to control everything I do."

"I know, Bella." It was killing both of us to only be connected by our hands, and he finally moved to bridge the distance between us, touching my face gently and tucking my hair back behind my ear. "I just … the idea of anything happening to you … it makes me a little crazy sometimes, and I react without thinking.

"You ground me, though, love. And you don't let me get away with a thing, do you?" he said, looking at me with admiration in his eyes. "You're so, so strong."

I blushed, but I didn't look away, smirking as I said, "Ditching you in the middle of the desert was pretty badass, wasn't it?"

His smile was finally genuine. "Extremely."

We leaned forward simultaneously and met in the middle, letting our lips press together with relief. And with that, I knew that we would be okay. That I had talked him down off of his ledge, addressing his concerns without giving too much of myself away.

I knew, too, that nothing had changed. He would get set off by some little thing again at some point in the future, and things would escalate until I finally blew up at him and reminded him that I was his partner and not his child, needing to be protected from every little thing.

That soon I would be his wife.

As if he could read my mind, he slowed the motion of his lips and pulled back, squeezing my hands gently and reminding me that he knew full well that I was my own person. "Shall we hit the road again, Ms. Swan?"

I smiled right back at him and let him help me up off the ground. "Soon to be Ms. Swan-Cullen, thank you very much," I said, waving my left hand at him teasingly as I made my way back to the car.

The _driver's_ side of the car.

He opened the door on the passenger's side without complaint for once and paused, with his elbow leaning against the hood.

Even though I knew he hated the fact that I was intent on hyphenating our names after marriage, he didn't say a word about it.

Instead, he just smiled and said, "You know I wouldn't have it any other way."


	18. In Another Time

Thanks to bmango and letmesign.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally screw with the timeline for vampward meeting his Bella...

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 10  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/czT4Oh)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

The first time Bella sees him, she is eight. It is about a week into her summer vacation at her father's house, and she has been restless. While her father is kind, he is a lonely man, and his house is permeated by a stale scent of nights spent alone. She feels the energy of the house creeping into her tiny bones, a sense of stagnation making them actually feel as if they are growing more slowly, and more than once she has felt the urge to fly away.

It is with that urge in mind that she pumps her legs more quickly, her whole body bent toward finding a breath of wind that will make her feel more awake and more alive. The rusty wheels of the too-big bike her father bought for her bounce roughly over the cracks in the pavement, but she doesn't mind. Faster and faster she pushes, until suddenly she _is_ flying.

But like all earth-bound things, she lands.

By turns, Bella recognizes pain and a rusty, salty smell like earth on her burning knees and hands. Like a big girl, she tries not to cry, but as she tries to lift herself up it is all too much. The very world of unfamiliar blues and greens seems to spin, and nothing is moving correctly until she sits, curling herself into a ball against the curb. She finds that it feels safer when she makes herself small, even though, at the moment, it means confronting herself with the sight and smell of her own scraped and bleeding knees.

It is the scent of her blood that brings him out to her, of course.

She lifts shining eyes from their blurry study of the pavement the moment she senses she is not alone. Before her stands a pair of big black boots and worn jeans. She traces the long lines of denim until they disappear beneath a t-shirt and a flannel shirt that looks so different than the ones her father wears. The vision just keeps going up from there; he is so tall that she needs to crane her neck to see anything above his chest.

When she does, she cannot help but gasp at the sight of amber eyes full of wonder, floating amidst a smooth, pale face that is twisted into an expression of fury.

She sits mutely there on the sidewalk as he stares down at her, and although she knows that she should be frightened, she cannot seem to find the will to be. With a rough motion of dirty hands over her wet cheeks, she wipes away at the lingering remnants of her tears, before holding out a still-bleeding palm.

And quietly, she whispers, simply, "Hi."

The man before her recoils, and she wonders if she imagines it when she observes that he is holding his breath.

Still, she persists. "My name is Bella."

He shakes his head just a little, as if in apology, and then sucks in a large gasp of air that makes him wince. Still refusing to take her outstretched hand, he mutters, "Hello, Bella."

"Why don't you want to shake my hand?"

Golden eyes seem to darken as he stares at it like it could hurt him, but at her innocent yet grown-up gesture, the troubled lines of his mouth form a reluctant smile.

When he finally speaks, it is all in one rushed breath. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. My name is Edward." Then, so gingerly, so tentatively, he allows his fingertip to touch hers, an intimate little handshake of one forefinger looped inside another.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Edward." She looks at the house they are standing in front of, well aware that it is the only one around for at least a quarter of a mile. "Do you live here?"

Returning his hand too carefully to his pocket, he nods.

"It's nice." It is. After so much time in her father's stuffy little home, she recognizes the draw of pane glass windows and fresh paint, and the allure of hyacinths just bursting into bloom.

"Thank you."

His eyes move from her hands to her knees and back again, taking her in just as carefully as she is him. She finds that there is a nervously still quality about him, broken only by the motion of his lips as he asks too gruffly if she needs assistance. The off tone in his voice is her first sign that perhaps he does not want her to be lingering outside of his lovely house, so shaking her head, she declines.

"No, Mr. Edward. I think I'll be able to get home just fine."

"But you're hurt," he observes. Awkwardly, she shrugs.

"I've had worse."

"Perhaps a … um, band-aid? For your hand?"

Her eyes dart between the handlebars of her bike and her scratched up palms, and with a wince she acknowledges that this would be nice. Just a hair too quickly, he nods, moving up toward the house and returning immediately with the offered items. Bella sucks in a surprised gasp when, instead of just handing them to her, the man kneels before her on the ground, and with fingers that are cold and soothing, he examines, and then dresses, her wounds.

And he isn't the only one who isn't breathing as he does so.

"Thank you," she whispers shakily, pulling her hands reluctantly from his grasp. He steps back as she stands, keeping an appropriate distance between them, even though she senses there has been something like a connection between them. The idea of having a friend – even a strange, old, cold one – is a pleasant one for her.

But just as she is about to ask him if he would like to be her friend, she sees that tense look return to his eyes. So she doesn't. Instead she just gets on her bike, nods and goes.

His relief is palpable as her tiny form finally begins to retreat.

But for some reason, his eyes still follow her the entire time as she is riding away down the winding road.

#-#-#

The next day, Bella rides by his house again, drawn by some look she had seen in his eyes that spoke of loneliness and wonder, and which haunted her restless dreams. To her surprise, she finds him standing in the yard, a rake in his hand, although he does not seem to be working hard. He waves a hand in greeting and she begins to do the same but her bike jerks to the side, and she grips the handlebars to try to keep herself from falling. Somehow, he ends up at her side before her body can hit the ground, one hand coming up to steady and right her. They both stare at each other awkwardly when she thanks him.

And then they smile.

Sitting on the curb, they spend the entire afternoon talking in a way that she has never talked to another person before. For some reason, his quiet, patient questions pull the secrets she never shares from her lungs, and she finds herself explaining all sorts of things. At length, she describes her dreams and her fears, relating stories about parents who never speak and a house that feels cold and still even in the summertime. He also tells her something about his fears of stagnation, and even though she can tell that he is holding something back, for a moment she feels like she can glimpse his heart.

They continue the conversation the next day and then the next. Over games of checkers and ice cream sodas, she teases out little bits of his history, too, and a soft, pensive smile that makes the angular reaches of his face seem a little less cold. Sometimes, he has other things for them to do, laying out large sheets of paper and crayons which they use to draw out fantastical scenes.

Other times, they simply sit at the picnic bench behind his house and read.

It's a friendship that she quickly comes to treasure, and yet which she does not feel comfortable speaking about. When her father asks her what she did with herself all day, she answers honestly that she rode her bike. But she never tells him where she went.

Edward, too, seems to feel the inherent secrecy that should be kept tightly drawn around their time, and the care that should be taken to protect it. They never go anywhere beyond his yard and she never sees the inside of his house. The closest they ever come is the covered porch out back, where they sit and talk and play on days when it is either too sunny for him to be outside or when it is raining out.

On the last day of her month-long stay, she approaches the house with a sense of dread inside her chest, knowing that a friendship between an old soul and a young one is unlucky to survive the year. He seems to know already what she is about to say, and she is both comforted and scared to see a darkness and a sadness in his eyes. It reminds her of the day when she met him for the very first time.

And it is only then that she realizes exactly how much happier he has looked in the time that they have spent together.

They drag their heels all day, talking around the impending separation. It is only when they can delay no longer that Bella bites her lip and turns to him.

"I'll miss you," she whispers, throwing her tiny arms around his waist. He sucks in and holds a breath, and it feels to her as if her heart is breaking when he does not respond.

Slowly, so slowly he inhales, looking down at the soft brown hair and the naïve, scared eyes that are staring up at him. And then he lowers himself down to his knees and takes her head between his hands, placing one soft kiss to her forehead.

Quietly, he whispers, "I'll miss you, too."

#-#-#

Back at her mother's apartment, Bella does not hope to hear from him, throwing herself back into the fast-paced, frantic life that she has always known there. But it is not the same. Conversations with other eight-year-olds do not seem as important anymore, their ideas so small and their confidences suspect. Even though she makes new friends, she never shares with them the way she did with Edward.

She wonders if she'll ever find a friend she feels so comfortable with again.

The next year, she finds herself anxious and hopeful getting off the plane and stepping into her father's fond, but detached embrace. But her hopes sink the moment she arrives at her father's door to find the package that is waiting for her.

She opens it with trembling fingers that are just a little bit more sure than they were the year before, revealing a shiny new purple bicycle that is exactly her size.

And a note that says simply, "Thank you for a summer of memories and friendship."

She does not cry when she rides up on that gleaming, perfect bike to find the house she loved so much all boarded up, the hyacinths in bloom but choked by weeds. Instead, she simply sits herself on the curb where they so often talked and tries to commit the memories to her head.

And she tries to ignore the fact that, the entire time, she feels like she is being watched by haunted, regretful eyes.

#-#-#

Over the next few years, Edward and his family move around the country with great frequency, rarely staying in a single spot for more than a couple of months. Perhaps it is the constantly changing scenery, or perhaps the little hole inside his chest that opened on a warm June day, watching a girl sit alone on a curb beside a bike, but Edward finds himself becoming more and more despondent over time. Day by day, his loneliness inside the circle of his longtime companions grows, surrounding him, until he finds himself so tightly curled in on himself that he begins to go weeks at a time without speaking.

While it brought him unparalleled joy at the time, he understands that his brief brush with friendship has only made him all the more cut off and isolated now that he has been forced to pull away from it. He thinks of Bella often as he drifts from town to town, remembering with fondness the little girl whose blood smelled like heaven and hell, and whose smile pierced his frozen, broken heart. Replaying their conversations, he wonders if it was just her childlike innocence or the silence of her mind that appealed to him and caused him to open himself so fully to companionship.

Whatever it was, its absence has left him closed in ways he had not even realized that he could be.

Ways that he had not even realized he _had been_ for the better part of a century.

Seven years after their departure from Forks, the coven finally decides to settle down again, beginning life as high school sophomores and freshmen. Edward is still lost enough in his own depression that he is not entirely cognizant of the ways in which his prescient sister's mind has become closed to him over the course of their decision-making, a veritable litany of ancient texts scrawling across her consciousness.

Or if he does notice it, he does not care.

He spends four lonely, wasted years in another high school, repeating the same hours of infinite tedium he has experienced so many times before. His sister pushes for the family to maintain their current aliases for a little longer after they graduate, presenting him with a variety of possible places to go to college. It does not escape his attention that the University of Washington is close to that cool, grey town where a little girl brought a smile to a face as old as stone and time. He hears the obscure songs being translated in his sister's mind, but does not comment on them as his hand closes around the brochure, lingering long on the happy faces of young people that are printed on its cover.

With his chest panging slightly, he tries to remember what it felt like to smile.

#-#-#

Edward sits through the first two weeks of college filled with a mixture of uncertainty and optimism. There is something to the quality of the earth and the colors of the buildings that reminds him of the summer he spent just a few hours west of here, feeling at home and alive. He has no illusions of meeting her again, even though he knows that she would be about the right age.

But there is something about being close to his memories that makes him want to try to hope for a chance at connection again.

It is a perfectly ordinary day when it finally happens.

He has just gotten out of yet another freshman seminar class that he did not really need to attend and is walking past the bike rack when he stops, unable to move forward or to step back. Closing his eyes, he takes a moment to just stand there and savor the scent, which still speaks to him of a desperate need to drain the closest victim, but which has also changed. No longer so sweet, it has taken on a floral quality, full of ripeness and of a soft, swollen fruit, hanging pregnant on a vine.

When he finally looks up, he sees only pale skin and a face he knows too well, and a body he is certain he has never known.

But suddenly, for the first time in his century of existence, he _wants_ to. Desperately.

It seems wrong to think of the innocent child who lit his darkness that way, his eyes drifting over curves that were not there those many years ago. But he cannot deny that the young woman who captured his mind and a lonely corner of his heart over a decade ago possesses him completely now.

He watches in rapt attention as this new, grown-up version of his Bella bends slightly to fasten a lock around a shining purple bicycle that would appear to be a slightly larger replica of the one he bought for her years ago. Uncertain whether to approach or to flee, he stands perfectly still.

And then she turns.

He does not need to be able to read her silent mind to know that she recognizes him, and that in her head she is counting years and trying to make her memory match the impossible lapse in time. Panic claws at the edges of his chest, replacing the hope he had almost dared to feel, as moment by moment, her eyes widen further, her complexion paling.

For an interminable period of time, he simply stares, his instincts warring with each other. The overwhelming impulse to run and never return is just about to win over when she suddenly seems to shake something off, her breasts rising and falling as she begins to breathe again.

Slowly, she walks over to his still-paralyzed form.

And then she holds out a hand and, in a tone so reminiscent of the one she used all those many years ago, she says, "Hi. My name is Bella."

He doesn't hesitate this time, but he doesn't inhale either. Instead, he simply reaches out his hand to curl one long finger around hers.

Shaking slightly, he whispers, "I know."

She tilts her head, hearing the words he hasn't said.

She smiles as she says, "I know you, too."


	19. Appearances Can Be

Thanks to SorceressCirce, bmango and ahizelm.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write third person slash. Which is surprisingly freaking hard. (TWHS)

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 2  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/cYa4lm)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward and Jasper  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

**

* * *

**

It is a rough and tumble place for sure, Edward thinks, walking through the door. His boots thud slightly on the concrete floor, attracting an upward glance or two from the men around the bar.

A thrill runs down Edward's spine with every step as he looks around. It's a place that screams of hard drinks and hard men.

And it's exactly what he is looking for.

Few of the men at the bar spare him a second look, letting their eyes drift back to the game playing in the corner. They discount him quickly as a pretty boy who takes amusement in 'slumming it,' recognizing without being able to articulate it that his jeans fit just a little too well and his boots still have a bit of a shine. Even his hair, messy as it may be, seems intentional in a way that a working man's would never be.

Feeling the heaviness of the indifference surrounding him, Edward scans the room once before settling in on a bar stool. He tells himself that he can be patient.

After all, he's been waiting twenty-one years for exactly this.

"What can I get you?"

The air is stolen from Edward's lungs as he looks up into skeptical blue eyes. The bartender's voice is rough and terse, his expression guarded. After a quick, admiring inspection, Edward thinks to himself that the man in front of him is not that much older than he is, although he wears his age quite differently. There are lines around his mouth, and he thinks he spies a couple of scars that give his face a more rugged, experienced look.

That's not all though, Edward thinks, squinting slightly. There's something more to his expression. Something false, like he is hiding.

It takes Edward exactly three seconds to spot the edges of the mask the man before him is wearing.

And he is utterly possessed with the desire to pull it off, and to leave it discarded on the floor beside his bed atop a pile of all the man's clothes.

At the sound of a throat clearing, Edward is pulled from his contemplation of short lengths of curly blond hair and of a stubbled, chiseled jawline, realizing with a start that he has yet to answer the question about what he would like to drink. His eyes dart around the room until he recognizes a label, and he gulps before asking for a Bud.

The bartender raises one eyebrow, and Edward watches the way his forearm flexes as he reaches into the fridge beneath the bar. He opens and sets the bottle down in one swift motion.

His voice is wry as he confides, "I'd ask for ID if I thought there was the slightest chance you'd have any."

Edward smirks as his hand wraps around the bottle, subtly trying to match his grip to the outline of the fingerprints, still visible in the sweat beginning to form along its side. With his other hand, he flips out his wallet, revealing the license that still says "Under 21" in bold type, but which has that day's date printed clearly across the bottom.

He watches as an arched blond eyebrow all but hits hairline. "You've got to be shitting me." The bartender's hand hits the wood surface of the bar with a slapping sound that would have drawn plenty of eyes, had they not been glued to television screens. "A kid like you? Spending your twenty-first birthday _here_?"

A fiery hot wave of shame and discomfort pushes its way up Edward's spine before coloring his face, and he looks down, berating himself mentally for thinking he could blend in.

Or that any of the rougher sorts of men he fantasizes about so breathlessly could want anything at all to do with him.

Edward feels the heat of his blush intensify under the weight of a heavy stare. He doesn't meet it, though, his eyes focusing intently on the sight of his own fingernails, picking distractedly at the label of the bottle from which he has yet to take a single pull.

When the bartender's body moves away, Edward almost shudders, both with disappointment and relief. He is so caught up in his own storm of thoughts, berating himself again for being so naïve, that he doesn't notice the man returning, and he practically jumps when a calloused hand slams two shotglasses down in front of him.

"Well, then," the bartender says, glancing at the ID still laying out on the bar, "_Edward_. Happy birthday." As he is speaking, he is pouring two shots of amber-colored liquor into the glasses set before them.

Edward lifts his eyes to find the blue ones before him looking just a little bit less guarded, his pulse rising at the sexy smirk spreading out on chapped, pink lips.

"Well, thank you …" Edward raises his own eyebrow, along with the glass, trying suppress his hope that this is an invitation to more than just a drink.

"Jasper. Or Jay, if that bugs you."

Edward smiles. "No, not at all. Thank you, Jasper."

Jasper only nods in response, and without further fanfare, each man tips back his shot.

Only, while Jasper swallows smoothly before slamming the glass back down, Edward is overcome by the fire in his throat, clawing through his insides and forcing him to hack and cough. Jasper just stares down in amusement as Edward fights for breath, dropping the glass as he grabs for his throat. Some of the men around them are looking now, and Jasper has to hide how adorable he finds the whole thing, turning his free, happy smile into his more characteristic smirk. He takes a single swat at Edward's back, thudding against it a bit too hard and causing Edward to cough just a little bit more.

"That'll put some hair on your chest," Jasper barks, eying Edward's torso and feeling a stirring in his body at the lean, wiry shape of him. He pulls his hand away from Edward's spine before he can give himself away any further and gruffly continues, "Looks like you could use some," while trying to hide the fact that he is glancing at that chest appreciatively.

Much to Jasper's relief, at just that moment, he spies a raised hand on the other side of the room and walks away, but he keenly feels Edward's eyes on him the entire time.

For the next half hour or so, Jasper is distracted by his work, serving up beers and shots and joking with the regulars that are the bread and butter of his measly income. He never loses sight of the boy in the corner, nursing a shitty beer with a blank expression that barely seems to mask his disappointment or his disdain. Jasper watches as too-manicured nails rake through too-perfect hair and as full, soft lips mutter in agitation, and he tries desperately not to let his mind wander to thoughts of what those lips might feel like, pressed to his.

His back is to the room, his hands busy making change to settle another customer's bill, when he finally hears the boy snap, though. An empty bottle hits the surface of the bar along with a small fistful of bills, and then the boy's body is pushing back, the sound of the stool scraping across the floor sounding harsh to Jasper's ears. He looks up quickly, but Edward does not meet his eyes as he storms toward the door, his fists curled and his shoulders hunched.

Jasper doesn't even bother to pick up the money Edward has left on the counter, pushing the cash register drawer closed with a slam. He sets the other customer's change down in front of him without a word, his body already moving through the gap at the end of the bar when the man begins to question him.

He is moving just fast enough to grab the back of Edward's shirt as he is slipping out the door. Out on the sidewalk, Edward turns, rounding on him with his nostrils flared as if he is expecting a fight. Jasper can sense the moment that recognition dawns, because Edward's fists suddenly loosen, a questioning look replacing the angry one from just a minute before. It is followed swiftly by a blush as his arm rises, his long, smooth fingers raking anxiously through the back of his hair.

"Jasper?"

Jasper lets the door slam closed behind him, ignoring the fact that he is going to get a lot of shit from the rest of the guys at the bar for this. Instead, he just steps closer to Edward, surprising himself with the raspy quality of his voice when he says, "You forgot something."

Edward takes the bait, patting himself down, "No, I - "

Jasper shakes his head and smiles and interrupts. "You forgot this."

Edward's lips are just as soft and perfect as Jasper had known they would be, even if his face is frozen in shock beneath Jasper's rough touch. It takes only a moment of Jasper pressing his mouth to Edward's before he boy registers exactly what is happening, though, and Jasper smiles deeply against his lips when he feels Edward melt into him, feeling a warm shiver as wiry arms come up to surround his waist.

They linger for a moment, parting mouths and smiling and letting tongues briefly move forward to explore and taste. Jasper ends up being the one to finally break the kiss, knowing full well that he can't leave the bar unattended for long. He laughs at the look of sheer disappointment on Edward's face and leans in to brush his mouth just once more across those warm, full lips to try to bring a smile back to them. He grabs Edward's hand and holds it up, fumbling to get a pen from his pocket and to upcap it with his teeth.

"And you also forgot this," he mumbles around the pencap, scribbling his name and number across Edward's palm.

Edward beams, staring at his hand and then at Jasper, who is already motioning that he needs to go back inside. Edward cannot even bring himself to be all _that _disappointed, he is flying so high from the excitement of his first real kiss with a man. He grins and waves with his open, ink-stained hand, and he is just turning to leave when he hears Jasper's voice one more time.

"Oh, and Edward?"

He whips around, feeling a thrill to see Jasper at the doorway, smiling completely unguardedly, the mask finally gone.

"Yeah?"

"Seriously. Happy birthday, man."

Edward grins to himself as he makes his way to his car. As he punches the numbers scrawled across his hand into his phone, he leans back into the headrest behind him.

Because for the first time, he is absolutely certain that his birthday is going to be a happy one, indeed.


	20. Wingspan

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write sad stories.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 25  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/alGtcv)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella & Edward, Alice  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

**Warning: ** In case you didn't read the note above, this o/s is sad.  
**  
**

* * *

"Don't be nervous, love." Edward's voice is soft and seductive in my ear, the tone of it tickling as he kisses along the shell. "I just know they're going to love you."

I draw my eyes reluctantly from the enormous house in front of us to stare into his eyes, his face so close to mine as I squeeze his hand and breathe out.

"OK," I manage, and I smile. "Let's do this."

He keeps his hand on the small of my back as we make our way along the walkway to the already opening door. The woman who steps through it is kind-looking, and in spite of the wrinkles and the grey, I can make out something in her face that reminds me immediately of the man at my side.

"Edward!"

He keeps his hand on my waist as he pulls his mother into a one-armed hug, turning her to me gently as he releases the embrace. "Bella, this is my mom, Esme Cullen. Mom, this is Bella."

"I'm so glad he's finally brought you home." Her smile is genuine as she pulls me into a quick, light hug. The very tenor of it is somehow so very reminiscent of my mother's arms that, for a moment, it seizes up something in the inner workings of my chest.

I try to shake off the memory of the last time my mother held me, but I'm still so jarred that the only smile I can offer is a tight-lipped, forced one. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Cullen."

She and Edward share a knowing glance, and I'm certain that he's already told her.

"Please, dear," she says, one warm hand on my shoulder. "It's Esme."

I nod, but find nothing else to say, staring down at my feet as Esme ushers us both inside.

"Your father won't be home until dinner, but you two go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. I'll have lunch ready in just a few." There are more instructions about the rooms in which we will stay, and I vaguely feel Edward squeezing my hand when she mentions the guest room and points to me. In the gesture, I hear his apology, and his promise that it will only be a few short days until we share our bed together once more.

Esme leaves us at the foot of the stairs, and we climb them hand in hand, before he pauses at the first door on the long hallway

"You alright?" he whispers against my temple as he sets my bag down, warm arms winding themselves around my waist.

He can sense my distraction, even as I try to focus on the here and now. On him.

"I'm fine," I promise. "Your mom seems really great."

"Yeah, she is. I told you she would love you. She probably already has wedding dresses picked out for you."

I roll my eyes and wave off the conversation he's been hinting at and which I'm still not quite ready to have.

He places one more kiss to my cheek before drifting down to my lips, and I let mine part. It's a quick kiss, hinting at just the slightest promise of more, even as it remains at a soft simmer of comfort and love.

"Later," I whisper, pressing my lips once more to his and pulling away. Reluctantly he lets me go, giving me a few minutes to myself to freshen up and settle in. While the trip only took an hour, the combined effects of my nerves and of the sleepy steadiness of the road have left me groggy-feeling and drifting. I enter the guest room with a little sigh and sit down on the too-large bed before letting my head drop down into my waiting hands. The combined stress of meeting his parents and of confronting so many ghosts of my own weighs on me heavily, making me crave my lover's arms at the same time that I find myself withdrawing from them, both mentally and physically.

I know that it hurts him, this need of mine to be alone sometimes. I know too that he understands me well enough now that he will give me the space I need.

Standing, I make my way to the adjoining bathroom and splash water on my face before smoothing down my hair and reapplying just a little bit of gloss. Deciding that I am adequately presentable, I close the door to the guest room behind me and make my way back down the stairs, listening intently as I do. In the distance, I can hear Edward and his mother making conversation, and there is a soft sound of impact against a cutting board and of water running.

I begin to follow the noises, when my attention is caught by a room, half-shrouded in darkness, my eyes drawn to an enormous painting covering most of one wall. Glancing around, I step just past the threshold. I fidget nervously with the little silver necklace Edward gave me and which I always wear as I let my eyes roam the canvas, taking in broad splashes of muted color and the intense contrast between purply blacks and crisp whites.

And the way in which, somehow, the formless colors suggest an unafraid anticipation of death.

The way in which they evoke the shadows in my mother's eyes.

"It's called 'Wingspan,' in case you were wondering."

My breath catches and I whirl around, my heart almost stopping when I zero in on the figure cast in silhouette against the window behind me, her deeply resonant voice surrounding and haunting me even after it is lost on the motion of the air. I forget my manners as I stare, gawking at features that are at once dainty and hardened - at a slender neck and even skinnier hands, wrapped severely around a pencil and a sketchbook. But the most striking thing is the smooth, pale bareness of her head.

Bare except for one long line of scar.

"You'll excuse me for not getting up," she says from beneath a pile of blankets, gesturing at them as if they are self-explanatory. "I'm Edward's sister. Alice."

Edward's words float back to me. Worries about surgeries and treatments, and images of him with his head in his hands as he spoke with his mom and promised over and over that he would make time to come home.

"Bella," I choke out as I avert my eyes.

She nods. "I know."

"There you are. I've been ... " Edward's voice trails off as he steps into the room. "… looking for you."

He stops. "Alice," he murmurs. I can hear the pained shock in his voice, and I am convinced that this is not how she has always looked. That he can see in the lines across her scalp everything that she has endured, and that he has missed.

Esme's voice drifts in, telling us that it is time for lunch, and Edward leans out into the hallway to make his reply. We stand in the semi-dark for a few moments, restless uncertainty making Edward and I both fidget and sway.

Alice, for her part, is calm and still.

"Mom usually just brings me my lunch in here," she says coolly, practiced detachment hanging in every word.

"Ali - "

"I don't mind." Her head tips down just a little.

"Well, I do." Edward glances at me for just a moment, his hand brushing mine in a small gesture of apology before he crosses the room.

It's too intimate to watch their whispers to each other. To watch each sibling's face rise and fall, and to see my lover smooth one thumb beneath his sister's black-ringed, bruised-looking eyes. I turn away, hovering and trying to make myself invisible so as not to intrude. When I catch Edward shifting back blankets and pulling Alice into his arms, I cannot help but look, though. Wasted limbs come into view, her head lolling until it comes to rest on the broad strength of his shoulder.

Together, they rise and Edward crosses the room in a few smooth long strides. He fakes a smile for me as he passes.

But the look of love and tenderness on his face when he looks back down is completely real.

o~o~o

Lunch is extravagant by my standards, a far cry from my staples of Ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches, and I tuck into it perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. Edward follows suit right after me, trying his best to feign normalcy, but failing. He and his mother keep up a cheerful bit of banter, and I answer questions as they are asked of me with my very best effort at aplomb.

At the other end of the table, it is almost silent. Alice barely picks at her food, getting down just a few small bites before draining a glass of water and what I can only imagine is the better part of a bottle of pills.

Just as the silence is beginning to feel truly oppressive, the house phone rings, and Esme stands to retrieve it. The three of us continue to pick at what is left of our meals until she returns, a scowl marring her face.

"That was Mrs. Cope," she says as she replaces her napkin across her lap. "Something's come up and she's had to cancel for Wednesday."

"What's Wednesday?" Edward asks, staring at his mother and missing the way his sister's eyes tighten, her fork falling.

"Your - your sister has an appointment in the morning, and needs someone to stay with her while I meet with some clients that afternoon. Mrs. Cope next door has been helping us out tremendously, but - "

"I don't need babysitting." That such a bitter, angry sound can come out of a mouth that looks so sunken it's shocking, and all heads turn to stare at Alice as she glares at the full plate before her.

"Of course you don't, sweetheart."

Even as an outsider, I can tell that neither Alice nor her mother intends to give in.

o~o~o

After everyone has gone to bed, Edward sneaks into my room. He is all but wordless as he breathes against my hair and pushes my pajamas down my legs, slipping himself inside me with a sort of quiet desperation that is betrayed by the shaking of his hands around my waist. When he comes, it is with his face buried against my neck, and with the dampness of silent tears seeping through to my skin.

We lie there naked in the dark for some time after that, holding and touching.

When he finally speaks, it is a quiet whisper in my hair.

"I don't know what I'll do if we lose her."

o~o~o

In the morning, Edward goes with his father to play golf, but not before tenderly lifting his sister from her bed and helping her to settle in on the window seat beside her painting. Her posture is closed and defensive as she pushes herself back against the cushions, but there is vulnerability there, too, as she stares up at her brother in a silent communication of gratitude.

Before he leaves, he gathers me tightly into his arms and kisses my forehead.

"You'll be alright?"

I nod. No one is looking, but I still feel his mother and his sister in the distance.

"Sure," I say, and I force a smile. "It'll be fun."

His shakes his head at what he knows is a lie, and with another soft kiss he joins his father in the hall.

I spend most of the morning getting to know Esme. She is a warm, quiet presence in her kitchen, and I can feel her restraint as she holds back the multitude of questions she must have for me about my relationship with Edward and about my family. The fact that she isn't pushing enables me to share more freely, and by lunch time, we are both laughing over memories of my own childhood and of Edward's.

And only once do those memories of my mother give me pause.

Later on, Esme excuses herself to return some phone calls from clients, and I am left to my own devices. After so much time sifting through pieces of the past, I am relieved to have the chance for some quiet time, and set about wandering the house looking for a comfortable spot to read.

And again, I find myself on the threshold of a darkened room, staring at a painting.

This time, I venture in, knowing what I will find, and I do not flinch when my vision connects with hollow, haunted eyes. Struggling to keep my voice from wavering, I gesture at the recliner in the opposite corner of the room with my book in my hand and ask her, "May I?"

Her expression does give any sort of reaction away, and her voice is similarly detached. "The light is better in the living room."

"I know. But I don't feel like being alone."

She shrugs and stares out the window again, her bony hands scratching a pencil across a sketchbook balanced precariously on her lap. Deciding that this is as close to consent as I will probably get, I move slowly to the corner and sit down, opening my book and trying to find my place.

For an hour or so, I read and try not to look up, even when I feel like her gaze is about to burn straight through me. We do not speak, the silence only broken by the steady motion of her pencil across the paper and of my pages as I turn them. By the time Esme comes back downstairs to ask if I would like to help with dinner, the awkwardness in the air has all but abated, and Alice and I have settled into a comfortable if non-communicative companionship.

I smile at Esme and tell her that I would love to help. Before I can turn to say goodbye, I hear Alice say my name, and I turn to look at her.

"I'll still be in here later, if you feel like reading some more."

And then, even if only slightly, she smiles at me.

o~o~o

The remainder of our visit passes pleasantly in quiet conversations with Esme and more boisterous ones as the rest of the family gathers around the dining room table. I take Alice up on her suggestion and join her on several occasions, reading and simply enjoying the quiet time with another woman who appreciates the appeal of silence.

When it is time to leave on Sunday, I give myself over to the comfort of Esme's arms without letting my mind wander to a different memory of a mother's embrace, shaking Edward's father's hand and smiling at him as sincerely as I can. We are just about to go when I realize that I have yet to say goodbye to Alice, and I excuse myself.

She is, as always, beside her window, and I enter quietly, clearing my throat to get her attention.

"Alice?"

Her eyes do not meet mine, but she nods.

"We're leaving, but I wanted to say that I really liked getting to meet you." My words are met with silence, but I persist all the same. "And I was wondering, maybe … I don't have any classes on Wednesday."

Her head finally jerks up, and I am met with a suspicious stare. I falter slightly, but do my best to recover without giving my uncertainty away.

"Would you maybe like to have lunch?" I stammer, knowing full well that the invitation must be offered in a very particular way.

That I'm not offering to be her babysitter, but her friend.

She stares at me for a long moment, her gaze appraising, as if she is searching for my sincerity. Finally, her face and posture subtly soften.

"I have chemo at ten, but I'll be back by noon," she says quietly. In spite of myself, I let out an audible gasp. After how delicately her mother spoke when she mentioned the appointment, I assumed that it was something like that, but I am still shocked to hear Alice being so blunt.

When I am collected enough to respond, I agree. "I could be here by then."

"OK," she says, turning her eyes back down. "But be sure to bring a book."

o~o~o

Edward and I spend the hour of the ride home comparing notes. He is anxious, touching my leg constantly, and I try to reassure him that I liked his family.

And much to my surprise, I find myself not lying when I imply that I can imagine being part of it.

We are almost back to our apartment before he broaches the topic of his sister.

"I'm so sorry, Bella. If I had known how sick she was I would have warned you - "

I cut him off. "No, it's fine." Staring out the window, I say, quietly, "I don't need to know what's wrong to know that I like her."

o~o~o

On Wednesday morning, I make the drive to Edward's parents' house with a strange, nervous fluttering in the bottom of my stomach. Esme greets me with a rushed hug and fleeting instructions about the food that she has left in the fridge for us before asking me to walk her to her car.

It's only there, in the driveway, that her voice drops, and she spends a tense ten minutes telling me the different things that I may be able to expect, and the emergencies I should be prepared for. I am reeling before she is done, clutching the list of instructions in my fist and tucking it in my pocket so that Alice will not see. Esme smiles tensely and thanks me, hugging me again and finally getting into her car and driving away.

I find Alice in the same place as always, and if I did not know better, I would wonder if she hasn't moved in the past three days. I say hello and am met with little more than a nod. She looks down again, but she is staring at nothing, and I realize that her ever-present sketchbook has been tucked away, and that her face is even more pale and drawn that it was last time.

That instead of a defiant young woman she looks like an incredibly sick little girl.

And that in her eyes, I can see my mother's dying face.

My hands shake as I put together the things Esme left for us, and I have to talk myself back down several times before I can bring myself to carry the tray back to Alice. She smiles at me weakly but says nothing, picking slightly at the food in front of her, but mostly staring into space. When it's clear that she has lost interest in eating, I take the tray back to the kitchen, fighting back memories of these same sorts of silent, one-sided meals as I clean the dishes and throw away what hasn't been claimed.

After, I slip back into Alice's room to find her cheek pressed against the cool surface of the glass, her eyes closed.

Looking away, I open my book.

o~o~o

"It's a brain tumor. They found it when I was sixteen."

Alice's voice pierces the silence we have been sharing for more than an hour now, startling me. Her gaze is still turned away from me, but I can now see a little bit of life creeping back into the reaches of her face, and my shoulders measurably drop with the simple relief.

After a moment she continues. "I was going to go to college, you know. Hell, I was going to graduate high school with more than fucking homeschooling. I'd already designed my own dress for my prom."

I can hear the way her throat is wavering, and I'm sure that if she looked at me, I would be able to see tears streaming silently down her face.

"I'm so sorry, Alice," I finally say, even though I know it isn't right.

That no apologies, no matter how heartfelt, can make it right.

"Me, too," she whispers.

We sit in silence again until Esme comes. It is only as I am about to leave that Alice finally speaks again.

"Next Wednesday?" she says.

"Of course."

o~o~o

One week at a time, Alice and I settle into each other and into a quiet companionship that feels right. Every visit begins with a pretense at lunch, even though she is always too ill to really eat; I know it's important to keep up the charade so that this feels like friendship instead of obligation. And every time I visit, that distinction becomes more and more true.

One day, after she has recovered a bit, she asks me if I would like to read in a chair that is a little bit closer. From the couch beside her window seat, I can see the surface of her sketchbook. It seems too intimate to be staring at the inner workings of her head as faint grey lines appear across the white. I try to look away.

She catches me peeking, though. Quietly, she whispers, "It's OK."

And then she begins to show me.

The images are alternately beautiful and ethereal and ugly and stark. There are visions one might imagine a girl on the edge of the world would have, full of spectres and shadows. There are also images that feel like they must come from the other side, full of brightness and light and soft lines outlining faces too beautiful to be real.

A certain face in particular seems to show up with some regularity amidst those perfect pages, and I purse my lips as she flips from one to the next.

As usual with Alice, she doesn't wait for me to ask.

"I had a boyfriend," she admits, tracing the soft, pale ringlets surrounding the edges of the sketch with a fondness that softens some of the harshness that always seems to haunt her face. "He went to college in Texas."

Then she closes the book and turns her face to study her own reflection in the glass.

o~o~o

When her course of chemo is done, we do not really discuss it. The only change to our routine is that she has the appetite to eat a little something with me now.

And she begins to grow hair.

I still come to sit with her every week, and together we read and draw. Sometimes, when she is too tired to draw, I read to her. She closes her eyes each time, her breathing steadying and deepening until I feel certain she must be asleep. Every time I pause, she opens them and stares at me calmly. With her gaze, she tells me she is listening.

When she feels like talking, I listen, too.

I listen to a young woman who still seems to harbor a little girl's dreams. We talk about her brother and her parents and how she is less afraid of her own decline than she is of what it is doing to all of them. She tells me about doctors and treatments and how she is so, so tired of all of it.

She talks about death.

Eventually, I do, too.

I tell her about my mother and her long years of pain and illness. I recount the story of how she died and how I sometimes still feel empty inside.

"I always wanted a big family," I say. I want to tell her that the Cullens have started to become that for me, and that while they can never erase my mother's loss, their kindness makes feel so much less alone.

I don't have to, though.

Smiling, she whispers, "You have one now."

o~o~o

I have been visiting with Alice for months when I get a call from Esme out of the blue. I am about to call down the hall for Edward to let him know his mother is on the phone, but she doesn't let me.

"Can you two come? This weekend? The both of you?"

I have to steady myself against the table. I know this can't be good.

Without even asking Edward, I tell her simply, "We'll be there."

o~o~o

Edward's parents hold hands as they sit across from us on a couch in their living room. There are words and tears and explanations I can't hear through the din in my head and the aching in my chest. When I can't hold back any more, I squeeze Edward's hand and kiss the damp surface of his cheek and stand.

Alice is sitting where she always does, lost in some world beyond my sight and through the glass. Cast in silhouette against the brilliant orange and pink of the setting sun, she looks both weaker and stronger than she did earlier that very week.

I know it's because they're no longer poisoning her.

And that by the same token, they've given up on curing her.

When her voice rings out, it's clear but it's low.

"Did you know that I never even got to see a sunrise?"

o~o~o

I wake before five, still naked and with my back pressed to tightly to Edward's chest. Extricating myself from his grasp, I pull on my pajamas in the dark and make my way down the hall. I knock softly at Alice's door and then let myself in. She starts awake with only a gentle shake, staring up at me as if I could be Death himself.

She glances once at the clock and then back at me.

And she smiles.

I'm not strong enough to carry her the way that Edward and his father always do, but she's not as weak as they like to pretend she is, either. After helping her find her robe, I pull her in close to me and help her as we make our way to the back door.

We sit in silence on the damp grass as a ball of fire rises slowly across the sky. When it's bright enough to see, I pull our book from the pocket of my sweatshirt and ask her if she would like me to read.

She turns her neck to gaze at me evenly. "You know we're not going to finish it, don't you Bella?"

I gulp and reach for her cold, white hand. "I know.

"But what do you say we see how far we can get?"

o~o~o

Another month passes, marked by turning pages and by the deepening shadows under Alice's eyes.

The signs are all there, and even I know it's time.

Edward isn't home when Esme calls.

"My baby," she sobs. I sink numbly to the floor. "My baby. She was my beautiful little girl."

o~o~o

I think of Alice often in the years after. In my office in Edward's and my house, her painting hangs on the wall opposite the desk, and I stare at it for hours while I am trying to write.

Sometimes, I sit on the window seat in our living room, listening to the sounds of our children, as I pull a blanket around my shoulders against the cold. I read the book that Alice and I read together, stopping always at the place we were forced to stop.

It doesn't bother me, though. In a way, it serves as a reminder to me that life doesn't always get to have a nice, neat ending. That sometimes we simply live until we run out of pages.

Closing my book, I stare through the frosted glass at another sunrise.

And I smile, grateful as ever that my sister chose to share what pages had been given to her.


	21. The Game

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally imagine … "alternate careers" for human versions of our characters.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 3  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/a1jcif)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Alice and Jasper  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

He was so beautiful when he laughed.

With shaking hands, I brought a cupped flame to the cigarette at my lips. As usual, I was watching him. Always watching him.

In the reflection on the huge pane glass window that separated us, I could see our faces. Overlapping. Mixed. The dripping, smudged rings of my eyeliner were the compliment to his crystal blue irises – the chewed-up, crimson line of my mouth the counterpoint to soft, full lips.

My ruin echoing everything he had left behind.

He was so good at it, really. At working people. He always seemed to know what they were feeling – what they wanted, and how to get them to do what _he_ wanted. It was easy to forget sometimes that everything was a part of the game for him.

It was easy to forget that, in all likelihood, he was working _me_.

Holding back the shaking that was coming over me, a trembling I couldn't control, I lifted the filter end of the cigarette to my lips again, breathing in raggedly and watching the world on the other side of the glass before me swim.

For years now, we had been playing this scene, tables and cards and nights spent fucking in piles of uncashed chips, the taste of booze and cigarettes and my sex on his lips. We were the perfect team, really. He'd read all the signs, tiny tells and twitches of mouths, all the subtle shades to shifting eyes. I, for my part, had read the cards.

And together, we had never lost.

Only we weren't playing together now.

Staring at him through that impenetrable barrier of the glass, I steeled my heart against the vision of his arm wrapped around that Hispanic bitch's shoulder, those long, pale fingers teasing sensuously along the strap of her dress they way they used to around my breast. Beneath the table, I could see his knee, pressing deftly against her bare one as the tip of shoe traced her other calf.

He'd spoken of her often. Maria. His mark. The big con that would eventually be our ticket out of this place.

She didn't look like a mark today.

But I did.

With a brilliant smile, his lips descended to the curve of her ear, kissing a line down her neck. When they parted, I could read his breath.

"I love you."

And that was all it took to shatter me.

A blurred vision of sidewalk squares disappeared beneath me, my heel catching and snapping, but I didn't care. I ran until I couldn't breathe and then I ran some more, the keycard slipping in my hand before I finally managed to unlock the door to the room that we had shared.

But which we wouldn't any longer.

Still choking on my own bitter dreams, I began to pack my things, grabbing only what I needed. As I tossed another dress and another pair of stockings into the bag, I took swig after swig from the half-empty bottle of gin that had been left on the table near my side of the bed. It tasted like a cold and angry fire slipping past my throat.

I welcomed both its burning and its numb.

When my shaking hands finally drew together the zipper, I paused to take one last look around at everything I was leaving behind and everything that was left of my life. Even old shirts and bottles and the rumpled fabric of the sheets made me ache; I knew that each would carry his scent. I wondered how long it would take before the lingering traces of him faded from my body. And from my memory.

With a last, keening sob, I threw the bottle to the ground, laughing at the sound of its shattering perfection and at the minefield of glass burying itself in glittering sparks across the carpet. I was just about to head to the door when my eyes fell on the drawer where we kept our stash. Wiping my hands across my eyes to push the tears and the make-up away, I stumbled to the dresser and rooted through the books and underwear until my fist closed around the wad of bills, stuffing it into my pocket without thinking about what would come next. The drawer was almost closed, my mind made up and my heart made hard.

But then I saw it.

Tucked up between the side of the drawer and the sad fabric of a balled up pair of socks, I saw a little velvet box, black and lush. Before I knew what I was doing, it was in my hands, turning with the fascinated, terrified motion of my fingertips and thumbs. I sunk to the floor.

I opened it.

And when I saw the ring, my heart broke.

So many times, I had asked him, only to meet his rejection, again and again and again.

Standing over him at the card table, I had asked him for his name. For his promise of a future together that I couldn't quite picture.

For a ring.

Lying naked with his body inside of mine, I had _begged_.

"Forever, Jasper. Give me forever."

He'd given me a grunt instead, his hips pushing ever more violently against mine and his breath so hot beside my ear as he came, whispering only, regretfully, "Someday."

But my someday would never be.

I sat there staring at the diamond and platinum band until the room started to spin, my legs splayed out on the floor in front of me and my tongue tasting of gin and of him. Each time, I saw it superimposed over a picture of that bitch's hand in his, his lips offering her what he had never, ever offered me.

Hope.

When Jasper finally came back, he didn't knock or announce himself. He just pushed the door open, smirking in my periphery the way he always did. From that entryway, he called my name triumphantly, but I couldn't lift my eyes from the glittering box. I couldn't look at him.

I couldn't look at myself.

His coat fell to the ground along with a bag I didn't recognize, and I could feel his panic as he seemed to take in the state of the room, all of his things lying scattered across the floor. Then he was staring at me, approaching in long, quick strides to kneel between my legs. His face was all mock concern and alarm as he tried to take my face in his hands.

"Alice, what the fuck - "

I didn't let him finish. Rising unsteadily to my feet, I hobbled away from him on my one broken heel, tears streaming freely down my face as I threw the ring box to the floor. In the mirror over the bed, I could see my own dishevelment. I was all broken edges and black smudges, the future I had always imagined I could see so clearly suddenly obscured.

Broken.

Still sobbing, I grabbed the bag off the bed and teetered my way toward the door, and while so many words bubbled up, my throat choked and closed on every one.

I didn't thank him for the years he'd spent making me feel like someone whole and real or for the games we'd played or the thrill of working the world with him by his side. I didn't scream about the whore he'd bought the ring for or the late nights he'd been spending away from me for weeks now.

I didn't begrudge him the feel of her skin beneath his lips.

The metal of the door handle felt so cold beneath my palm, a certain finality sounding alarms inside my broken heart as I turned it and prepared to walk away from the only happiness I'd ever known.

"Should I take that as a no then?"

I froze at the sound of his voice behind me, gruff and broken, and I could actually hear the tears contained inside it. He waited, giving me my moment to keep walking, but I couldn't force one foot to move past the other.

When it was clear that I wasn't going anywhere yet, he swallowed hard and kept talking. I could feel him standing ,the warm sensation of his presence approaching until he was only inches from my spine.

"I would have liked to at least have had a chance to ask you, Alice. Will you let me, before you go?"

My own voice was tiny as I whispered, "Ask what?"

His hand settled over mine, squeezing it gently before pulling it away from the doorknob, his body moving closer until I could feel the heat of his chest as it pressed against me. With soft movements, he brushed his lips over the back of my neck before kissing my ear. Like a woman possessed, I dropped my bag and sank back into him as he wrapped his arms around me, my need to flee warring with my longing to just let him hold me.

"We had a very big night tonight," he whispered, one hand tracing its way up my arm. "Everything we'd hoped for."

"We?"

"You and me, baby. Always you and me."

He was still ghosting his lips and hands across my skin as he pulled me even closer in, my breathing becoming increasingly ragged and my thoughts growing fuzzy.

And all I could think was that, if he was working me, he was doing a damn good job.

"Maria?" I managed to choke out, even as my hand was closing around his wrist to encourage him to touch me more. Harder.

He laughed.

"She is going to be very, very upset when she wakes up."

A bubble of hope rose up in my chest, tilting my lips up into the faintest remembrance of a smile. "Yeah?"

"Wouldn't you be, if the young man you'd invited to your bed slipped something in your drink and took you for everything you had?"

I jerked myself from his grasp and turned, almost losing my balance as my broken shoe slipped on the carpet. When I finally faced him, he was all wide eyes and a brilliant smile – the kind of smile that he always wore when he had played the game and won.

When _we_ had won.

"You didn't," I breathed, even though I knew he had. My hand rose up, my shining, black fingernails settling on his cheek as my thumb caressed his chin.

He leaned in to catch the pad of it between his teeth, biting down once before releasing me.

"I did. I told you this was going to be big."

"I know, I just - "

"I don't think you do know, Alice." He reached up to take my hand in his own. "This is the kind of con we can walk away from it all with. Go buy a shitty house in a nice neighborhood with a picket fence. Wake up the prissy asshole neighbors by fucking on our lawn in the middle of the night." His lips moved to my ear again, kissing seductively across my jaw and hovering so close above my lips that I could feel them as they moved. "Have obnoxious little rugrats and get old and fat."

"You'd walk away?"

"In a heartbeat, if you wanted to," he breathed, his warm hand surrounding my palm so that my fingers were splayed out between us. He smirked. "And I'd make an honest woman of you."

"Of me?" I squeaked.

He pushed the ring onto my finger in the same motion that he finally moved to capture my lips with his own, kissing me with conviction before pulling back just long enough to rasp, "That's what I wanted to ask."

I didn't even have to glance down at the ring I'd spent the whole evening staring at, imagining it was meant for another woman's hand instead of mine. Slowly, I brought my left hand up to rest it against his cheek, watching his eyes as they darted between all the different features of my face, looking for my answer. I leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth before catching his gaze, smiling with relief and with happiness.

The ring was mine.

_He_ was mine.

"We wouldn't really have to quit, would we?" I asked quietly. I tried to imagine our life without the thrill of the chase – without the cards and the highs and the feel of the wind rushing through our hair.

"No, baby." His lips brushed mine with every word as a brilliant smile eclipsed his face. "We can do whatever the hell we want to."

But his couldn't possibly have been as brilliant as mine.

"Then yes."

Jasper picked me up, his strong arms surrounding my waist as he twirled me, kissing me hard on the mouth before throwing me on the bed. With his hips nestled between my thighs, he traced a smiling line down my neck, nibbling and laughing and nuzzling his nose against my skin. He made his way back to my ear before whispering, "I would like to know what you _thought_ was going on when you almost walked out of this room, though."

He pulled back slightly, and I followed him with my fingertips, letting them trace across the stubble on his jaw.

"I just - I got a little confused, baby." Searching his eyes, I took a moment before continuing, hearing in my own ears how my voice grew smaller with every word. "I got lost with what was the game and what was real. I saw you with her and thought … well, I started to wonder if I was the mark, after all."

His eyebrows drew together, furrows appearing across his skin. "You could never be, Alice. Never." His lips met mine again, pushing deep and hard, our tongues tangling and his hands roaming across my hips and chest. "The game's not worth playing without you."

With my legs and arms, I pulled him into me, shaking and smiling, my eyes leaking but with most perfect, elated tears. After one more long, wet kiss, he rested his forehead to mine, still beaming, riding high on the combined effects of love and winning. "I want to celebrate you agreeing to be my wife, properly, baby," he half-growled, nipping teasingly at my skin. "But _someone_ is going to be very unhappy when she wakes up to find _that _gone." He motioned with his head to the bag on the floor, and I giggled.

"Yes, she will."

Jasper buried his face in my neck one last time, inhaling and then sighing out deeply before jumping out of the bed and holding out a hand. I took it, lifting myself on wobbly feet.

"You and me, babe," he murmured softly against my lips.

I pressed the hand dressed in his ring to his heart and kissed him gently. "Always."


	22. Reunion

I'm running way late with this shit. Any errors are mine. Please feel free to be with the yelling at me.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally enjoy getting into the _after_ part of _happily ever after_.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 7  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/9TPpJ0)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

"Do you remember the first time you let me walk you home?" Edward's lips tease at the skin behind my ear as he speaks, and I giggle.

We are here for our twenty-year reunion, but after an evening of sharing stories and glasses of champagne with old friends, we have slipped away, seeking less to reunite than to _remember_.

Batting him away, I stare out at the campus, its paths aglow with soft light. The paths themselves are mostly the same, but the lamps, I think, are different.

But the whole place, somehow, still feels like home.

"Of course I do," I finally answer, letting my thumb play over his wedding band. "After all, it's the first time I let you kiss me."

"Mmmm, it was," he mumbles, running his nose down my neck. "But most certainly not the last."

"Heaven forbid."

One warm hand settles on my shoulder to turn me toward his body, and I do not resist. When our lips touch, it is all sweetness and love, and maybe just the tiniest hint of uncertainty.

As if we have not done this a million times before.

As if it is our very first kiss all over again.

Holding onto that feeling, I push a little harder, pressing my tongue against his just a little more insistently. I can feel the low growl starting in the base of his throat as his hands tighten their grip around my waist.

"Bella," he murmurs, half in warning and half in invitation as he begins to kiss a long, wet line across my collar bone and over to my ear. I can feel his mouth tilt up into a smile. "What about after the kiss? You remember what happened then, don't you?"

I laugh. "You mean me running inside and slamming the door in your face?"

"Cruel woman."

"I was, wasn't I?" My hands drift up to tangle themselves in his hair. It's not quite as brilliantly red or wild as it was twenty years ago, and the temples are now littered with grey. But it's still just as soft as it was when I touched it on that very first day.

"No," he whispers softly, with one hand caressing my cheek. "If anything you were much too kind."

Hearing the wistfulness in his voice, my thoughts drift back to the tumultuous days surrounding that first kiss. For me and Edward, things never seemed to come easily. Whether in his head or in mine, there were always so many things hanging unresolved in the air, so much doubt and insecurity.

And yet none of it seems to matter to us now.

I shake my head and touch his fingertips with my lips. "Just because kindness was new to you doesn't mean it wasn't something you deserved."

"I never thought I deserved you."

I wrap my hand around his and pull it so that I can kiss his knuckles softly.

"Everyone deserves love," I breathe, leaning forward until I can kiss his lips. "Especially you."

His arms close around me and he pulls me tightly against his chest. I can feel his breath in my hair as he whispers, "I'm so glad you think so."

"I do."

We sit in silence for a while, each retreating into our own memories. As I stare at the red brick buildings in the dim light, I find that every part of this place is tied up in memories of Edward and of our beginnings. From the biology building where we met to the dining hall where we ate and laughed and not-so-secretly flirted under the watchful eyes of all our friends – to this pathway, lit in amber from the streetlights, where first we kissed.

And the dorm room where, for the very first time, we made love.

Our thoughts seem to lead us in the same direction simultaneously, and before long, I feel his lips against my neck again, his hand making soft circles around my hip.

"Wanna go see my old dorm?" he says, his voice husky.

"Yes."

We are up and off the bench, walking hand in hand toward the corner of the campus we knew most intimately, and I cannot help but flush and giggle at the memories of everything we shared there. As we pass a group of students, Edward falls in step behind me, his arm shifting so that we do not lose our connection.

And then, once the students have passed, he pinches my ass.

I yelp, and he laughs, dropping my hand to place his arm around my waist as he leans down and nips teasingly at my ear. Both smiling wide, we approach the old building from the east, neither needing to speak as we instinctively head toward the door that was always propped open in our day.

It's open still.

We sneak in like criminals, each looking around furtively and laughing quietly as we follow the twists and turns of the basement to the darkened rec room where so few people ever went back when we were students here, except in pursuit of one thing.

One thing that seems to have completely taken over both our minds.

Without turning on the lights, he presses me into the corner behind the door, his mouth hot and insistent on mine. I let my hands explore his back, drifting ever lower as our kisses grow deeper.

When he pulls away to drag his mouth across my throat, I gasp for breath and whisper, "Are we really?"

In answer, he returns to my lips, sucking the bottom one between his teeth as his hand drifts to the edge of my skirt. Leaning into me more fully, I can feel his excitement, hard and long against my hip as his fingertips drift ever higher up my thigh.

"For old time's sake?"

I let my eyes drift around the room for just long enough to confirm that it is indeed empty before nodding. I feel all of the tension and restraint leave his body as he attacks me with even more fervor, meeting the soft skin between my legs with his hand as his mouth moves down my chest to surround the tip of my breast through my clothes.

"Couch?" I breathe, clutching at his hair and remembering exactly how uncomfortable sex up against a wall was back when we were twenty years younger, and suppressing a laugh as I imagine him throwing his back out and having to explain to the paramedics what we were doing here. He grunts his assent and we stumble the three feet over to the couch that, even back in our day, was always turned to face the wall, shielding its occupants from the door. We collapse onto it as one, a tangle of limbs and breaths and hushed moans as he slides my underwear to the side and I trace the length of him through his slacks.

"God, you feel so good, Bella."

I stifle a whimper by biting at his neck, undoing his zipper and pulling him out of his boxers. We've never been the type of couple to shy away from adventurous sex, but with two teenage children living in the house, we've also had to learn to tone things down a bit.

And to be sneaky.

He groans hard as I begin to stroke him, still loving the hot feel of his flesh in my hands, and in answer he slips a finger inside of me, testing to see if I am ready. Fortunately, we don't seem to be having any problems with _that_ tonight, and I say a silent prayer to the gods of sex-after-forty for that one bit of luck.

Without any further ado, he settles himself over me, flipping my skirt out of the way and nestling his hips between my thighs. He breathes out a deep noise of satisfaction as he slides himself home, filling me in one smooth, slow stroke. Clutching his shoulder and his ass, I breathe his name and squeeze around him, eliciting a groan and a fresh round of kisses at all the reaches of my face.

As we fall into a rhythm that is both familiar and yet somehow always new, I think about how things have changed since the last time we came together here. There are the obvious changes, like the differences in my body that have come about over the years, but I try to dwell more on the emotional shifts than on the ways in which my skin has begun to show its age.

I remember how fumbling and excited we were back in the beginning – how insatiable and desperate we felt when we were first beginning to explore each other. Sometimes, I realize that I miss that sort of _need_ to have my hands on another person's body.

But then Edward shifts, pushing harder against my hips as he leans down to rub at the place he knows will make me follow him over the edge.

And I realize, gasping, that I will take sex with the man who has memorized my every inch and curve of my body over the fumbling boy from years ago who could barely find my clit. I will take it every day of the week.

And then some.

"Yes," I whisper, pulling him closer and digging my nails into the back of his neck. "Just like that."

He groans, his fingers moving faster over slick flesh, and I feel myself racing toward that perfect feeling that only he can evoke in me.

"Fuck. Bella."

His whispered is all it takes to make my whole body give in. I come around him in a symphony of sensation, spasms of pleasure, and I can feel him pulsing inside of me as he drops his head to rest against the soft skin at the base of my neck. For a moment, we simply lie there and breathe, still connected and flying high.

When we have both more or less recovered, he rises up on his elbows and places a soft, wet kiss on my lips, brushing my hair away from my face with fingers that are full of reverence as he gazes down at me with a look of awe.

"God, I love you, Bella."

"Still?" I ask, smiling. It's a question I ask him often, and he knows by now that it's just another way of telling him I love him, too.

That my love is all the deeper for being wrapped up in the mystery of how, after all these years, he can still be just as in love with me.

"Always."

At that exact moment, I am blinded by an intense, bright light being flipped on overhead, and I hear Edward as he whispers a string of curses, pulling out and fumbling with the fasteners for his pants. My eyes widen in panic as I pat down my hair and right my skirt, but I can't bring myself to really be upset. After all, this is way too funny.

Edward collapses back down on top of me with a finger pressing to his lips, indicating that we need to be silent.

"God, do you remember this?"

There's a familiar female voice floating on the air and Edward and I each glance at the other with surprised expressions.

"Mmmm, of course I do," another, deeper voice growls.

My eyes light up with recognition at the same time that Edward whispers, "Fuck," and I'm just a little bit too late in suppressing my giggle. As Edward slaps his hand over my mouth, a shocked silence falls over the room.

A shadow suddenly blocks the light, and I look up with an anticipatory wince to find the smirking face of Edward's old roommate, Emmett, staring down at us, along with that of his wife, Rosalie, whose expression is half amusement and half smug superiority.

Just like the last time they caught us in exactly this position, more than two decades ago.

"Seriously?" Emmett cries, slapping the back of the couch. "Again?"

Edward rolls his eyes and plants one more soft kiss to my lips before lifting himself and rising unsteadily to his feet.

"Well, Bella," my husband says smoothly as he helps me up. "I guess you were right after all. This room hasn't changed one bit."

I shake my head and wrap my arms around his waist. "Nope not at all."

Ignoring Emmett and Rosalie, we make our way toward the door.

"Ew, seriously?" Rosalie is griping, but I hear Emmett laugh behind us.

As we are about to pass through the door, Emmett calls out. "Hey, guys?"

I turn my head just in time to see Emmett pulling his wife down onto the very same couch we just vacated. I snort and bury my head back into the warmth of Edward's chest as he says, "Yeah?"

"Do me a favor and turn the lights back off on your way out."


	23. Thundercats, Ho!

Thanks to bmango and sorceresscirce for pre-reading. I'm still running late though, so any errors are my own damn fault.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally fantasize about my perfect Geekward. Mmmmm, Geekward.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 13  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/9jSyBQ)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

_

* * *

_

_Butterfly panties._

From the moment she entered the room, it was all I could think. All I could see. If I could smell or taste butterfly panties, that was what I would have been smelling and tasting.

_Fuck. Tasting her panties._

"Edward?"

I felt myself turning red, my eyes widening as I jerked my head up and away from my computer screen to look at her, those lips twisting up into a smile, like she knew exactly what I was thinking – like she could see the scandalous images moving through my head and making my jeans feel tight. Images of her, bent over my desk, my shaking hands pulling butterfly-covered fabric to the side to get to the sweetness underneath, came over me, and I actually heard myself whimper as she pulled her lip between her teeth and cocked an eyebrow at me.

Fuck but I hoped she didn't know what I was thinking.

I fumbled with my glasses, struggling for composure and stammered out, "Um, hi. Hi, Bella."

She smiled, the expression as innocent and sweet as the ruffled panties I'd glimpsed when she'd bent over to get something out of her backpack the last time I'd seen her, and I hardened even more.

"So?" she said expectantly.

"So?"

I mentally cursed when my voice broke. It was like I was a fifteen-year-old virgin all over again, my armpits and my palms getting damp and my voice cracking, everything in me feeling so awkward and uncomfortable, and I didn't know why I couldn't just _talk_ to her.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that while I wasn't fifteen anymore, I was still a _twenty_-year-old virgin. Which was even more embarrassing, honestly. Especially when the girl in front of me made me want to do all kinds of mortifyingly, deliciously graphic things to her. Things I had only ever had a chance to do in my imagination, jerking off hurriedly in the dormitory shower.

Things I was sure, if I ever did have the chance to actually do them, I would probably be awkward and fumbling with.

Things that would probably make her laugh at my naivete and inexperience when I fucked them up so miserably.

"So … is my laptop ready?" At the sound of her voice, I flicked my eyes up to look at her face, realizing a second too late that I'd had to flick them up because, in the course of my internal rambling, they'd drifted down. Down to her … breasts.

I was staring at her breasts.

Her soft, perfect, amazing-looking breasts.

_Fuck._

Embarrassed to have been caught staring, I turned another level of red, probably approaching purple as I coughed and stammered and began to apologize, when I was disarmed by the look on her face. Rather than furious, her soft brown eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed and lovely, and in spite of all my perverted, lecherous thoughts, she was smiling.

Smiling at me.

Cross that.

Smirking at me.

"My laptop, Edward?"

"Oh! Yeah, um, yes, sure it's ready," I managed, fixing my glasses and running my hand through my hair compulsively, before standing. I happened to look down by accident as I did, realizing with horror that my uncontrollable erection was glaringly visible through my pants, and I squeaked as I pulled my shirt down and turned. Praying she hadn't seen my completely inappropriate reaction to her, I mentally cursed some more and tried to adjust myself before taking a couple of uncomfortable steps toward the back room.

I fumbled with the lock twice before I managed to get the door open, flicking on a light before making a beeline toward the shelf where I knew her computer was. I'd fixed it myself about three minutes after she'd dropped it off at the help desk, and I had been just waiting for her to come back and get it.

Much to my chagrin, she'd taken the requisite three days before stopping by again to check on it. I'd considered calling her, knowing full well that I still had her number from the group project we'd worked on together in a seminar class the semester before , but I'd felt weird about using it after not having seen her in so long. I didn't know – was it really creepy of me to still have her number in my phone? Was it even creepier to look at the picture she'd let me take of her to go with it from time to time, remembering how good she had smelled sitting next to me in the library late at night? Or that I occasionally pictured the wistful look that I'd sworn I'd seen on her face when we'd said goodbye at the end of the semester? That I still thought about her? Obsessed about her even?

That I still pictured that little ruffle on the back of her panties, the bright colors of butterfly wings rising over the edge of her jeans and set against the creamy white skin of her hip and spine?

_Yeah, dude. Definitely creepy. _

_Fuck._

Finding the laptop, I groaned and adjusted myself again when I saw the little butterfly decal she'd adhered to the cover of it. Closing my eyes, I tried to distract myself by thinking over the list of upgrades I'd come up with to suggest for her computer, reciting RAM requirements and processor speeds in my head. Somewhat calmer, I picked up the laptop and made my way back out to the front desk, only to stop, open-mouthed and gaping at the vision of her. She was leaning forward, the valley between her breasts so clear and so tempting from where her shirt had fallen and gathered, a pair of glasses I'd never seen before perched on her nose and a pencil between her lips.

And fuck me, but it looked like she was doing calculus. On my desk.

The little groan that fell out of my mouth at the vision of her there seemed to startle her, and in a whirl she was standing up and whipping the glasses off her face, the sheet of integrals hidden behind her back. Looking up at me shyly, she blushed, and I didn't think I'd ever seen anything more beautiful or more enticing.

I willed myself forward, putting the laptop down and shoving my hands in my pockets to keep myself from reaching out and grabbing her and begging her to let me take her home with me. "H-here you go," I muttered, looking down.

"Thanks, Edward," she said sweetly.

We stood there, not looking at each other for an uncomfortably long moment. A hundred times, I began to open my mouth to say _something_. Anything, really, if it would only get her to stay a little longer and talk to me. But I had nothing.

"Well, I guess I should be going," she said quietly, and if I didn't know better, I could have sworn there was a little touch of regret in her voice. The sound of it filled me with so much longing, wishing desperately that I was the suave kind of guy that could just man up and ask her out or tell her to sit on my dick or even just beg her to kiss me and to take my virginity. But I wasn't.

"Yeah, sure," I said, looking up and nearly losing myself in her eyes. She sighed and nodded and slipped her computer into her bag before turning and walking away.

And out of my life again.

"Um, Bella?" I called out, before I knew what I was doing or what the hell I was going to say.

"Yes?" she answered breathlessly, whipping around and leaning back against the door with light sparkling in her eyes.

"Um," I said stupidly, racking my brain. "Um, if you ever need any help with that again, or with your calculus, I, um, I would be happy to help."

"Oh." I couldn't tell if she sounded disappointed or pleased with my offer, and I felt myself almost deflate. There was nothing else I had that I could give to her to entice her or to convince her that she should stay. "Okay," she agreed. Then she nodded and turned back around, opening the door.

And then she disappeared.

~O~

I spent the rest of my shift at the helpdesk burying myself in work, clearing the entire docket of help tickets in a matter of hours, whereas I usually would have stretched it out to fill several long, tedious days. When the next guy finally came to relieve me, I handed him a clean desk and an empty inbox. I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the gleeful look that stole over his eyes, and I muttered, "You're welcome," as I slung my messenger bag over my head, mentally reminding myself to sterilize the mouse and keyboard after what I imagined would be an epic night of porn-surfing for him.

Outside, I started the long walk home, placing one foot in front of the other and doing my best not to think about what a mess I'd made of something so simple as trying to talk to the girl I'd been dreaming about for a semester. My shoulders slumped further and further forward as my own sense of frustration and annoyance with myself grew, knowing full well that on a campus as big as ours, I very well might never get an opportunity like that again. By the time I made it back to my building, I'd pretty much resigned myself to remaining a virgin for the rest of my life, doomed by my own social ineptitude to a future dominated by computer screens and my own soon-to-be-calloused right hand.

I sighed and opened the ever-propped door, taking the stairs up to my suite much more slowly than I normally would, staring down dejectedly as I turned the corner.

And then I stopped cold.

_Butterfly panties. _

Holy fuck, there were butterfly panties outside my room.

There was only one girl I knew wore butterfly panties.

And never mind that I'd only ever _seen_ the panties of one girl before.

Because I would recognize _these_ panties anywhere.

At my shocked gasp, the figure kneeling down to tuck something underneath my door stood up, turning quickly, and I drank in the image of her full lips and wide eyes, her long, brown hair falling in soft waves around her face.

"Edward!" she squeaked.

At the same time, I gasped, "Bella?"

She stepped away from the door, her hand twitching and her lip disappearing between her teeth.

"Um, hi," she said shyly, gesturing at the door. "I was just leaving you a note. I just had a quick question, um, about my laptop?"

"Oh." The hope that had been bubbling in my chest popped, and I felt my shoulders sagging again. "I can take a look at it for you."

"I don't want to impose," she said quickly. "I mean, if you just got out of work or whatever, you're probably tired. Or have stuff to do."

I shook my head and stepped forward, accidentally brushing her side as I reached forward to unlock my door, my breath catching in my throat as I did. Struggling to calm my breathing and my body's unconscious reaction to her and to her scent, I closed my eyes tightly and walked inside, flipping the light on and dropping my bag on my bed.

"C'mon," I said, inviting her in and gesturing toward my desk.

"I really appreciate it," she mumbled, pulling out her laptop and setting it down. "It's um, it's nothing big or important or anything. And it's working so much better than before. I just, um, couldn't find some of my documents and stuff."

"It's no problem," I said dully, sitting down and adjusting my glasses nervously. I kept my eyes fixated on the computer's screen as it booted up, trying desperately not to hyperventilate at the fact that I had a girl in my room. And not just a girl, but _the_ girl. The girl I'd fantasized about having here more times than I could count and _way_ more times than I would ever admit to. Even if she was only here for my computer knowledge, she was still here. And it was still more than I ever would have dared to hope for.

When the screen came up, I shifted uncomfortably all over again at the colorful, if sort of juvenile, pictures of rainbows and unicorns and, of course, butterflies on her desktop. I nudged myself closer to the screen, peering at it over the tops of my glasses, messing around with the touchpad to pull up her My Documents folder.

"Were these what you were looking for?" I asked, confused. Everything seemed to be in order, and she couldn't possibly have been so computer illiterate as to be unable to open up the folder literally named "My Documents." She had always seemed so smart.

Much, much, much smarter than this.

"Um," she started, and I could almost feel the teasing warmth of her breath near my ear, realizing suddenly just how close she was to me as my body broke out into a cold sweat of panic and arousal.

"Bella?" I turned to look at her and swallowed hard when I was brought nose to nose with her, only an inch of too-thick air separating us. I licked my lips reflexively as my eyes were drawn down to her own soft, pouty mouth, the impulse to kiss her so strong I could barely resist it. Shaking my head slightly, I gestured back to the screen awkwardly. "Was that all you needed?"

"I, er, I mean, I guess …"

She bit down on her lip, looking down at me with an unreadable expression on her eyes. She opened her mouth and closed it again at least three times, before she paused, whispered, "Fuck it," and closed her eyes and clenched her fists. And then, before I could breath or react or ask her what the hell she was talking about, her sweet little mouth was pressed to mine.

I froze, sitting up bolt upright, my eyes snapping open wide and all of the blood in my body moving directly to my dick, making me almost light-headed. She smelled perfect and I could feel her warmth everywhere even though she was barely touching me, the pressure of her lips on mine electrifying me.

The kiss only lasted a second, but it still threw my entire world on its end, leaving me dumb-founded and gasping. As soon as it had started it was over though, and suddenly she was pulling away, a look of horror on her face as her hand rose up to cover her mouth.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Edward, I - you probably - "

She didn't get another word out before I attacked her, rising up out of my chair and closing the distance between our bodies in a single stride. Her eyes widened in surprise, her lips parting as her hand fell away from her face and back down to her side. For all that she seemed frozen this time, she didn't back away. Emboldened for the first time in my life, I found my own hand rising up, settling softly against her cheek as I tipped her head up slightly.

With my eyes, I asked permission, my whole chest buzzing when she nodded mutely. Letting my eyes drift closed then, I finally lowered my mouth to hers, kissing her the way I'd wanted to since the very first moment I'd laid eyes on her.

Now I was a socially retarded, sexually inexperienced dweeb, but I wasn't such a dweeb that I'd never kissed a girl before. But awkward attempts at making out with Angela "Brace Face" Weber back in eleventh grade had _nothing_ on the feeling of having Bella's hot, wet lips pressed to mine. The moment she opened her mouth and let her tongue touch my bottom lip, all the overwhelming sensations finally became too much for me, and I groaned out loud.

Terrified of her reaction and embarrassed as hell that I was such a clueless virgin, I pulled back, but if anything the look on her face seemed to be one of … desire?

"Bella?" I started to ask uncertainly, but she cut me off by grabbing the back of my neck and pressing her entire body against mine.

"God, you're sexy," she breathed as she kissed me again, and my chest ballooned.

Along with other things.

As I opened my mouth and let our tongues touch, she moved one hand down to my hip, pulling me closer, and I whimpered slightly when I felt my hard-on brush her stomach. It felt so good to have some pressure against it, but I was also panicking, uncertain as to whether or not it was acceptable first kiss behavior to assault somebody with your dick. I just decided to go with it though, since it felt fucking awesome and since she didn't seem to be complaining.

My hands moved to her waist of their own accord, keeping her close to me as I started to let them trail up and down her sides, from just below the place where her breasts were pushing against my chest to the soft swell of her hip. When she didn't protest that either, I got really bold and let my thumb brush the underside of her breast. The sound of _her_ moaning in response to _me_ actually made my dick twitch in my pants, and there was no doubting she felt it that time.

"Edward," she panted, and I whispered her name in response.

In my case, though, my whisper was as much about passion as it was about me looking for confirmation that it really was her running her hands through my hair and sliding her tongue into my mouth.

Because honestly, I still couldn't believe she was here, much less that she was kissing me.

"Edward?" she breathed again, and my lust-fogged brain finally recognized that she was trying to get my attention about something.

I broke away from her, panting hard and reeling from so much contact and from the sheer high of having well over half of my shower alone-time fantasies start to come true.

"Yeah?" I choked.

_Please don't say you have to go._

I gulped_._

_Or worse that this was a mistake._

_Please._

She didn't let go of me as I pulled back, motioning to the side with her head. I tore my eyes away from her flushed, swollen lips, to try to see what she was on about. As I did, her mouth moved to my neck, kissing a soft line down the side of it to my collarbone and making me grab at her hip even harder with a powerful surge of lust.

"Door," she whispered, her breath hot against my damp skin. After a few seconds of just standing there, trying to absorb what her mouth was doing to the skin across my throat, I finally registered what she was saying, and my erection throbbed painfully when I realized that she wanted me to _close_ the door.

That she and I would be in my room together.

Kissing.

With the door closed.

"Jesus," I muttered under my breath, leaning down to capture her mouth just one more time with my own before stumbling over to the door and closing it. Thinking twice, I flicked the lock, too, swallowing hard as I did.

I took a little longer than was really necessary at the door, because I was so worked up that I was actually starting to worry I would blow my load if she so much as looked at me again. When I'd sort of caught my breath, I turned around.

And all that calming-myself-down work was for nothing.

Because Bella was _on my bed._

My fucking _bed_.

"Fuck," I breathed, letting my eyes sweep from her lips, down over her chest and to her hips. Hell, I even ogled her feet.

Because seriously. They were _on my bed._

She smiled and stretched out, lying down fully with her head on my pillow, her arms open invitingly.

Faster than I would have thought possible, I was right there with her, practically jumping onto the mattress with my knees beside hers and my mouth attaching itself to her again, kissing every inch of skin that I could reach as my hands started to wander. I kept a little bit of space between her and my dick this time, because I was really worried about my ability to control myself. Her hands were all over my body too, one of them eventually twisting itself in my hair again while the other tentatively settled on my butt.

_Oh God._

_Bella was touching my butt. _

I let out another embarrassing groan but let her direct me until I was settled between her legs. I was still trying to keep my weight off of her, but the hand on my butt pushed against me again until my dick was pressed against her.

Right.

Fucking.

There.

"Oh my god," she exhaled at the same time that I let loose with my own string of curse words. I kissed her so hard it felt like I was devouring her as she rocked her hips slightly and a rush of the most unimaginable pleasure shot through every inch of me.

"Fuck," I whispered again, releasing her lips and burying my face in my pillow. I had _never_ been this close to a girl before. Not even close. And I had definitely never been this close to coming on a girl.

If anything, she actually seemed to be encouraged by my lack of control, continuing to tug at my hip and pushing herself against me. I held her as tightly as I dared to but kept my face hidden, not wanting to give away just how close I was.

"I've wanted you for so long," she whispered, and I groaned pathetically as I ground myself into her. "I kept hoping you would ask me out, but you never did."

That was enough of a shock to help me collect myself a little bit, and I sat up on my knees with a start, running my hands through my hair and staring at her with a flabbergasted expression on my face. She looked a little surprised too with my sudden withdrawal, her arms still extended as if she were hugging an invisible duplicate version of me.

"You did?" I squeaked. God, I was a disaster.

She nodded and lowered her arms, exhaling with a loud whoosh. And it occurred to me that she might be trying to calm herself down, too.

Because she was worked up.

Because of me.

I had a handle on myself though at this point, so with all the tenderness I should have been using this entire time, I reached out and ran a single finger down her face.

"I liked you so much," I finally admitted, speaking as quietly as I could. "I was such a chickenshit."

She grinned. "Well, then don't be anymore."

And there was something about the way she smiled. It was like it gave me some sort of confidence or something, and suddenly I was smiling, too. And then I was hovering over her again, my mouth inches from her and my hips aligned with hers.

Grinning like an idiot, I whispered, simply, "OK."

The next few minutes were a blur. Somehow, we were kissing again, and then we weren't because she was pulling her shirt off and working on the buttons to mine. When I felt her hands on the bare skin of my chest, I almost lost it, it felt so damn good, but somehow I managed to keep it together. Concentrating hard on not coming in my pants, I kissed all the way from her jaw down over her chest until I had the tip of her breast in my mouth through her butterfly-covered bra. She moaned and arched herself further into me.

Not needing any further invitation, I brought my hand up to cup the breast I wasn't licking and sucking at, feeling the shape and size of it, so warm and soft in my palm as I whimpered. She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, and as the fabric fell away from her, I practically stopped breathing.

And I stared.

Like I had never seen a pair.

Because I hadn't.

"God, Bella, you're beautiful. You're so beautiful." Figuring I'd pretty much resigned myself to being a virgin forever just a couple of hours ago, I decided to push my luck, and I descended on her again, kissing and touching and just generally exploring every single inch of her perfect curves. I might have also murmured some more praise about exactly how amazing her tits really were as I worshiped them, but fortunately I could barely hear myself, so I was pretty sure she couldn't either.

Her hands were on my shoulders again, and she pushed my shirt the rest of the way off before pulling me back to her mouth. As we started making out again, I could feel her bare breasts pressed against me, our hips still lightly grinding, and I was pretty sure that _nothing_ had ever felt this good. Ever.

And then her hand went to the buckle of my pants.

And I freaked. The. Fuck. Out.

All my fears came rushing back in about what a shitty lay I was absolutely guaranteed to be. Hell, I was so close to the edge that I'd probably jizz if I so much as got a sight of her … pussy.

Fuck, even thinking the word had me close to coming.

My hand grabbed her wrist desperately trying to stop her.

"Wait, Bella, please."

"What? Why?" She looked so confused and so … sexy, with her hair all over the place and her face and breasts all flushed.

_Holy fuck her breasts were flushed._

I shook my head, trying to think. "No, I - I want to. Holy fuck do I ever want to. Just, I - I um, I've never … "

I covered my face with one hand, realizing exactly how lame it was for a twenty-year-old male to be admitting that. She giggled a little underneath me and my mortification only grew.

"Shh, Edward, it's fine," she said, still laughing as she pried my hand from my face. I was still nervous as I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was smiling, but it didn't look like she was laughing _at_ me. Well, I mean, obviously she was laughing at me. But not in a mean way.

"It's OK, really," she continued, rubbing my hand and using her other hands to brush my hair out of my face. "Actually, it's kind of hot. And we don't have to do … that. If you're not ready."

_Had she not seen my pants? _

_Jesus Christ, I was ready._

I also knew that I totally wasn't ready of course. And as much as I was desperate to have my virginity out of the way, I didn't want to have some horrible two-pump-chump experience to remember it by, and with how close I was already, I knew that that was exactly what would happen if we tried to have sex now.

She was biting her lip and smiling and staring up at me. Releasing my hand, she drifted down to play with the buttons of my jeans again, giggling just a little as she prodded, "These just look … uncomfortable." With that she brushed the back of her hand over my very obvious, very painful erection, and it twitched with the contact.

"Yeah," I nodded. Because it actually was ridiculously uncomfortable.

"Can I?" she asked. I closed my eyes for just a second and exhaled hard. Opening them again, I found her looking at me so openly, honest desire and curiosity written plainly on her face.

"OK," I breathed. She smiled and pulled me back down to her, kissing me gently as she deftly undid the buttons of my fly. I helped her as we shoved them down.

And it was right about then that I remembered I was wearing fucking Thundercats boxers.

"Fuck," I murmured, half reaching to pull my pants back on, but she wouldn't let me, pushing them even further down with her feet as she laughed and kissed me and ran her free hand through my hair.

"You're so cute," she murmured as she rubbed her nose against mine.

But that was the problem, really. My first time having a girl in my bed, I didn't want her to leave it thinking I was _cute_. Dead sexy? Sure. Fucking stallion? Absolutely?

But _cute_?

I shook my head, still feeling embarrassed, but then she shifted, and at the very edge of her hip, I could see the tiniest hint of a ruffle.

Mother. Fucking. Butterflies.

"Talk about cute," I breathed as I completely forgot about my own incredibly dorky underwear. With one finger, I traced the edge of her jeans, and deciding turnabout was fair play, I started to play with the fly of them while looking up at her beseechingly. Her eyes widened and then she nodded fiercely, and I grinned as I started working on the button. She took pity on me and helped out after a second.

And then somehow, there I was. On my bed in only my underwear. With Bella. Staring at the butterflies on her panties.

She was blushing about fifteen shades of red herself as I sat there and gawked, and she started reaching for a sheet to cover herself back up with, but there was no fucking way that was happening.

"Don't even think about it," I growled, grabbing her wrists, and pinning them to either side of her head. Which seemed like an awesome idea at the time, but then I realized that it was kind of a dick move. I let her go immediately, but she left them there, staring up at me and panting. Lowering myself down onto her again, I left one elbow up by her head to help support my weight while my other hand descended to touch the silky fabric at her hips.

Gulping, I confessed, "I saw these once before."

"Yeah?" she whispered breathlessly.

"Yeah." I was so close to her now that my lips brushed hers every time I spoke. "You bent down to get something out of your bag last semester."

"Oh."

I let my lips brush hers intentionally this time, breathing harder as she responded.

And then, because I was an idiot and all of my blood was pooled in my dick, I whispered, "I've basically been fantasizing about seeing them again ever since."

_Fucking creep._

Instead of throwing me out of my own room and telling me to never come back, though, Bella, groaned, pulling my hip hard.

And then my dick was touching her. Through two layers of underwear mind you. But still. Were it not for those two thin pieces of clothing, I would be _inside her._

"Jesus Fuck," I whimpered. It felt so good to be this close to her, and I could literally feel how hot and wet she was, heat just plain radiating out from between her legs as she closed them around my hips.

At that point we were pretty much done talking, I guessed, so I went back to kissing the hell out of her, moaning and panting and pushing my tongue against hers. She was doing that thing again where she was grabbing my butt through my boxers and pulling me into her, rocking her hips over and over so the head of my dick kept pressing against this one little part of her, and she was making all these amazing little noises.

"Yeah, Edward, please. Just like that."

I hadn't even completely realized I'd started thrusting against her, too, my hips making these long passes at her and creating the most mind-blowing friction against my cock. Still swearing up a storm, I pressed even harder against her, running the whole length of myself against her pussy, and she was pulling me tightly against her with her legs, her hands in my hair and her mouth so hot and wet on skin.

"Oh God," I murmured as I started to shake, knowing I was going to blow, and soon, and trying so hard to hold on.

"Yes, yes, yes," Bella started chanting, and then her eyes were clenching closed, her fingers digging into my scalp and her thighs squeezing me.

_Oh my God._

_Bella was _coming.

_I was _making _Bella come. _

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck." With three more long, hard thrusts against her, I let go, and I swore to God that every single muscle in my entire body spasmed at once, come shooting out of me in thick, heavy streams as I gave myself over to the absolute best fucking orgasm of my life.

We both laid there, grasping at each other and breathing hard, my forehead pressed to hers and my body absolutely covered sweat.

And it was awesome.

"Hey," she finally whispered, smiling and reaching up to push my hair out of my eyes again.

I beamed right back at her. "Hey yourself."

Suddenly remembering that I was probably really fucking heavy – not to mention that my boxers were now completely disgusting – I rolled off of her, lying down beside her and gathering her up in my arms. We held each other in silence, just enjoying that awesome post-orgasm high, and in my case at least, reflecting on how incredible it felt to have somebody to hold post-orgasm.

I started glancing around the room after a minute, wondering if there was any reason why I couldn't just stay here and snuggle a half-naked Bella for the rest of the night, when my eyes settled on the now-darkened screen of her laptop.

"Um, Bella?" I rasped, my voice still husky from all that swearing I did while I was humping her.

"Yeah?" she responded sleepily.

I pulled my hand through her hair and looked down at her, still unable to believe that she was really here and cuddling up against my chest. Smiling softly, I kissed her damp forehead and moved my hand to settle it on her hip.

I really just wanted to lie there with her forever.

But there was something I needed to know.

"Bella, did you really not know where your My Documents folder was?"

She actually snorted, she laughed so hard, curling up into my chest and burying her face against my neck. Reaching up, she tilted my head so she could whisper in my ear.

"Nah," she breathed. "I just really needed an excuse to get you to show me those sexy Thundercats underwear."


	24. Grey

Thanks to SorceressCirce and bmango for pre-reading. Mistakes are mine.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write ridiculously angsty slash.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 16  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/baPV7c)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Edward and Jasper  
Rating: M

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

**Warning:** This is NOT wussperv approved.

* * *

My days are marked in dull, fabric-covered walls and matte grey cabinets. Numbers floating in an endless stream across a meaningless screen and hours and hours spent under flickering lights.

Another clock.

Another alarm.

The end of a day and a walk across an infinite expanse of asphalt to a sensible silver car that I'd always hoped might someday be enough to hold a family. Someday, when he was ready.

At thirty-five, I don't hope for much of anything anymore.

Except that maybe, someday, something will change.

My evenings are a loosened tie and a pair of colorless sweats, a beer that tastes like piss and dinner spent speaking of nothing. We don't make love and we don't touch, and I slip into a dreamless, restless sleep beside his body and yet completely alone.

I wonder sometimes when he stopped dreaming my dreams and started chasing his own, pulling away in increments until it seems like there is nothing left to hold me to this earth. Alone in my office, I let my fingertips play over the engraving on the silver inset of the leather cuff I got him for our tenth anniversary, thinking about all the gifts that I have gotten him over the years that he never wears.

And then, with all the strength that I have left in me, I don't throw the fucking thing in the trash.

#-#-#

The alarm blares out a tuneless tone, setting the rhythm for my life. He doesn't even flinch at it anymore, and I consider letting it ring until he has no choice but to ask me to silence it. I don't know when he got in last night, but I know that it was late, and that it was marked only by the smoky scent of him in the room and by the weight of his body in the bed.

With a grunt and a sigh, I slap my hand over the button and sit up, dangling my feet over the edge and staring at a carpet so worn and faded that even the monotony of my footsteps is etched into it in grey. For a moment, I turn and stare, looking at the soft blond ringlets that surround his face and the lips that used to smile every time he saw me. With my eyes, I trace the line of his neck down over bare skin to the edge of his hip, feeling my morning erection and the sense of sadness at the base of my spine both grow.

And then I have to look away.

In a sterile bathroom he'd said was "modern" back when we bought this place, I force myself under a scalding spray that still doesn't seem to penetrate the shroud around my skin. The only pleasure of my day comes from the few swift strokes of my hand over my own hard flesh, trying to drown out the need that is just screaming to get out of me, but in the end I am never satiated, only placated, as my seed swirls uselessly around a drain.

A cup of coffee and a handful of the antidepressants he doesn't even know I had prescribed last month and I am out the door and driving through a drizzling rain.

Faces and cubicles surround me, and all of them are the same. All of the little not-quite-offices are decked out in images of the same smiling faces. Families and lovers. Pictures drawn by adorable kids.

I settle into my own four windowless, ceilingless walls and shake the mouse to bring my computer to life, refusing to recognize the irony of the fact that its pixels and shapes have more color than the life that surrounds me. While I wait, I look at the one lone photograph that graces my space.

We're younger there. Our smiles are broader and our faces less covered with lines.

Remembering our honeymoon, the warm feeling of his arms wrapped around my waist and of his body buried so deeply inside of mine, I can actually hear him whispering my name.

But when I turn around, there's no one there.

#-#-#

That night I come back to an empty home.

It is the day before our anniversary and I spend the evening writing him a letter that I know he'll never see. In it, I tell him how much I still love him, and how much I miss him even though we still, in theory, inhabit the same life. With every word, I feel the rock inside my chest slowly shifting, fresh pain pouring from ancient wounds that have settled into bruises over time.

When it is complete, I decide to wrap his present and go to the hallway closet to look for a roll of tape.

But I do not get that far.

Because the minute I find the suitcases we bought together, standing there, packed, it takes all the strength that I have left in me just to close the door.

#-#-#

I am still hung over when the alarm rings. I don't look at him, lying naked beneath our sheets, and I don't jerk off in the shower.

I don't throw my body or his still-unwrapped present into the river as I pass over it on my way to work.

But I want to.

#-#-#

By the time lunch rolls around, my despair has grown so all-consuming that I cannot breathe. With blurry eyes, I make my way through the same grey hallways and out onto the street, navigating a path through nameless faces over colorless cement, before pulling open a door. Nodding to a waitress who looks almost as depressed as me, I settle myself on a bar stool and spend my hour nursing my own broken heart over the better part of a bottle of whiskey.

When I finally make my way back to the office, I am possessed by a numb that makes my lungs burn, emotion trying to squeeze its way out, but I keep it tightly under my control.

Even though all I really want to do it scream.

Eventually, the strain and the fog become to much; unable to even force myself to care, I lay my head down on the surface of my desk.

And with one lone tear slowly slipping down my face, I close my eyes.

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

I don't know how much later it is when I finally force my eyes open again, but I do it with a groan, a pain lingering someplace far in the background of my mind, but I can't seem to focus on it. Raising my head, I look around at the four sad walls that are as much of home to me as anyplace will ever be.

But the space inside those walls is no longer empty.

And instead of grey, there is _color_ there.

Hair in a soft, golden blond. Eyes in blue like azure and sky.

The sight of him takes my breath away. His head is turned down slightly, his hands in his pockets, and I can feel the anxiety radiating off of him.

And all I can think is that if he came _here_ to tell me that he's leaving me, I may disappear.

That there be nothing left for anyone to ever be able to find me again.

When I am still three steps away, he finally lifts his head, those eyes that used to see right through me zoning in immediately on my face and forcing a deep pain to radiate through me, absolutely excruciating in all the reaches of my chest.

But then those soft, rose lips lift, revealing dazzling teeth as he stares down at me with glassy eyes.

And for what feels like the first time in months, Jasper is smiling.

I stumble forward and out of my chair, fear and hope mixing in a dizzing, heady combination that leaves me tingling and numb. A million questions bubble up, but they never make it past my lips.

Because they're his.

Warm arms surround me, a deep, fleshy flavor of a kiss, and it is all I can do to hold on tight, letting my mouth open to the man who has always had the keys to the deepest parts inside of me, drowning in breath and touch and tongue.

When he finally pulls back, it is only to place his rough, warm hands on my face and shoulder, as quietly he breathes, "Happy anniversary, Edward."

My eyes widen even through the numb as I sputter. "What? How - "

His face falls, his voice hurt as he murmurs, "You don't remember?"

I shake my head fiercely, gripping at his neck and at his side. "I remember everything."

He smiles again and leans in closer. "Then you remember where we were ten years ago today?"

"Of course I do," I whisper, my eyes clenching against the ghost of a hope that feels like it might suffocate me.

"Good," he breathes, a sly smile across his lips and the telltale signs of arousal nudging gently at my hips. "Because that's where we're going."

A shock of something shoots through me, but for once it isn't pain. For a startling, breathless moment, I think it might be elation. I stand there slack-jawed as he massages my neck and pulls me closer to his body. Speaking softly in my ear, his tone is apologetic, but all I can hear is its promise that _something _is coming.

Something good.

Something new.

"I hope you don't mind. It's just - we - we've both been working so hard, and I feel like I never see you anymore, Edward. I - I miss you."

I am still mute, studying his eyes for any sign that this is a trick or a lie, because it is much too good to be true.

There is something brittle creeping its way across his face, a cracking at the edges of his smile, and his voice almost breaks. "C'mon, at least pretend to be a little excited. I even packed for us both already." He gestures with his thumb toward the door.

But I can barely hear him, his voice evaporating as if behind glass.

I watch his smile.

I read his lips.

"The suitcases are in the car."

There's an echo in my head of that word.

_Suitcases._

And then something new happens in those four padded walls. Something _different_ after all those years of silent monotony and dread.

Without a word, I slip out of his arms and into my desk chair, my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees, laughing and shaking with relief.

And silently, desperately, I cry.

#-#-#

The island is painted in the same vivid palette of my memory, an ocean in aqua and a fireball of orange hanging hotly in the sky.

Our room, too, is vibrant with crimson walls and crisp sheets, and we are tangled in them before we can even manage to fully undress. Kissing gently down the nakedness of my chest, Jasper is panting and I am flying, my body so hungry for the touch I had imagined was no longer meant for me. I pant and strain beneath it, soaking in the warmth of flesh and tongue, my eyes almost rolling back as I let my own lost hands wander across the miracle of his back. Tracing down his shoulder and his arm, I smile to touch the leather cuff around his wrist that he has refused to take off.

His lips slowly make their way back toward my neck, sucking softly there for a moment before I feel them curling up into a mystified smile.

"I can't believe you thought I was leaving you."

I chuckle quietly and thread my fingers through his hair, letting my other palm drift down to his hip.

After my breakdown back at the office, Jasper had pulled me into a deserted conference room where I had simply sat and clung to him, my throat raw with the strain of speaking all the words that had been held so tightly inside. All my fears and frustration. My loneliness.

And the vivid sound of my heart, slowly breaking.

He makes his way up to my ear before he continues, pressing me harder against the bed as his arousal brushes mine through our pants. "And here, I was worried that you were thinking about leaving _me_."

He punctuates the statement with a gentle thrust against my hips and my untouched body shudders with the pleasure of it, my hands grasping harder at every piece of him that I can reach as I almost cry out. Fighting to control myself, I pull on his hair to reveal his neck to me, kissing at it in long, wet motions of love and apology.

"Never, Jasper. Never."

He pushes against me once more and I tilt my hips to meet him. "Never stop talking to me again," he begs, taking my earlobe between his lips.

"Never."

#-#-#

That night, we make love the way we used to. We are frenzied at first, each brimming with the thrill of regaining what we feared had been lost inside that drone of monotony and not-quite-life, stoking and groaning and finding skin that has been covered for far too long. Quick, desperate orgasms brought on by the wet motions of hands and mouths fade into something just as intense, but less needy. Slower.

He takes the sort of time he used to take as he makes my body ready for him.

And when he is inside me once more, I see stars in every color of the rainbow.

#-#-#

Afterward, he rests his head upon my chest and I run my hands over sweaty skin, trying to tell him with my touch that this is everything to me. To my surprise, however, he has even more in store.

"Hold that thought," he says quietly against my lips, kissing me once before moving to the backpack sitting in the corner. He returns still naked and with a shy smile on those soft, full lips.

"What is this?" I ask, watching with growing curiosity as he begins sifting through papers.

He stammers nervously as his hands close around whatever it is that he's been looking for. "Another part of your gift."

I shake my head and start to put the papers down.

He's already given me so much this week.

He's given me back myself.

"Jasper, this is …"

He kisses me and touches softly at my jaw; I can feel him smirking against my lips. "You won't mind, I promise. It's not too much."

As he pulls away, I give him a suspicious look before glancing downward.

The papers crinkle in my hands as they curl into fists, and I can scarcely see for all the tears.

But even through the blur, I can make out the photographs of children smiling.

And the adoption application he's already filled in with both our names.

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

"Edward? ... Edward?"

I am awoken by a sharp thumping on my back and a pounding in my brain. My cheek is pressed hard against something cool, my face damp.

When I open my eyes again, the world is grey.

And the pain is crushing.

"You OK, man?"

My manager is standing in front of me, and instead of lying naked in a bed with my Jasper in my arms, I am hunched over my computer, the dim haze of dawning sobriety and wakefulness making my head spin.

I try to tell him I am fine.

But as my head falls into my hands, all I can do is whisper, "No."

#-#-#

Walking through the door to Jasper's and my home, I find the place deserted, and for a moment, I panic. Ignoring the throbbing at the base of my skull, I full-on sprint to the closet and heave a desperate sigh of relief that our bags are still there.

That he hasn't left me.

Yet.

The voice I heard in my dream comes back to me, his plaintive plea that I never stop talking to him again. With it, I can almost feel the texture of his skin and the taste of him.

And it terrifies me.

But I know what I need to do.

Grabbing the tape I came to the closet for in the first place the night before, I retreat to my office and finish wrapping his present, taking it and the suitcases with me to my chair in the living room.

For hours, I sit there, still awake well into the deepest hours of the night.

Thinking.

Remembering.

Rehearsing.

In my pocket, the letter that I wrote him is burning a hole through the fabric of my shirt, full of words that must finally be spoken.

Just as I am beginning to lose hope that he will even come home, my head lolling against the back of the chair, I hear a key in the lock, and I sit up straight. Twin blue eyes focus in on me immediately as he enters, his whole face squinting against the brightness of the room in spite of the hour.

Still shaking, I stand.

I know what I want.

What I have always wanted.

_Him._

"Jasper," I finally breathe, and I can see him exhale, too. It's impossible to mistake the uncertainty in his eyes.

Nor the hope.

It's the hope that gives me strength as I open my mouth and my heart.

"Jasper, we need to talk."


	25. The Sound of His Voice

Thanks to **bmango** and **letmesign**.

As always, Stephanie Meyer owns. I play. And occasionally write stuff so sweet it should carry a warning from the American Dental Association.

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt #: 24  
(www [dot] bit [dot] ly/dvhOYm)  
Pen name: theladyingrey42  
Pairing: Bella and Edward  
Rating: T

Photos for prompts can be found here:  
community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/thetwilight25/13912[dot]html

* * *

Sometimes, I think I know everything about him.

I know that he takes a shower every morning. His hair is always dark and wet as he runs to catch the bus for whatever fancy private school he goes to; in the evenings though, it's dry and brilliant, shining red and gold and brown in the lamp beside his bed.

I know that he likes to read and that he doesn't have a lot of friends. Few people ever float in or out of his room, and he spends most of his time there.

I would know.

I live across the alley from him, and my window opens directly onto his and onto my glowing nightly vision of him.

Sometimes, I feel like I know everything about him.

Except his name.

Except for the sound of his voice.

o~oOOo~o

He is sitting on his bed, his nose in a book the way it usually is. I used to leave the window open, straining to hear anything coming from his room, but I soon came to realize that he liked his silence. Nowadays, I keep my earbuds in, finishing my homework and trying not to glance up all the time.

"Bella?"

I jerk my head up and pull out one of my headphones, glancing at the door just as my mother pokes her head in. When she moved us here to Chicago, I took it with good grace, figuring another apartment in another city would make little difference to my already uprooted life.

Now, I've found that Chicago is growing on me.

Her eyes search the room for a moment before they settle on me. I don't know why it takes her so long; the view of the room across the alleyway is best from my perch at the foot of my bed.

"It's late, sweetie."

I glance at the clock. It's almost eleven.

Almost time.

"I know, Mom. Thanks."

"See you in the morning."

I steal out to the bathroom to change into my pajamas and brush my teeth. I used to change in my room, but I don't like closing the curtains until it's time for lights out.

Sometimes, I don't even close them then.

By the time I make it back, the boy in the window is similarly changed, sitting now in a plain white t-shirt and shorts instead of his button down and jeans. From across the alleyway he smiles and waves. I blush and do the same, wanting to look down, but feeling reluctant to miss a moment of the smile he keeps just for me.

As one, we settle into our beds.

And together and apart, we turn out the lights.

o~oOOo~o

"Crap," I murmur under my breath, struggling to pull my backpack on and tie up my hair at the same time, my brown paper lunch sack gripped securely between my teeth. I am racing down the sidewalk, with only a couple of minutes left until school starts.

I finally manage to get the elastic band secured around my hair when I hit a crack in the cement. Knowing I'm about to go over, I reach out my arms, stifling a murmur of shock when I hit something solid.

And warm.

Brilliant green eyes are staring down at me, my hand on the chest I've watched rising and falling, night after night, his damn hair hanging in his forehead and his cheeks flushed as he stares intently at my mouth.

"Jesus," I whisper, pulling my lunch bag out of my mouth. My comment makes him smile. He shakes his head and points to his school ID badge.

EDWARD CULLEN

I gape and stammer, somehow finding the presence of mind to point to myself and say, "Bella Swan."

He beams and makes a motion with his hands but says nothing. At my blank expression he frowns, blushing deeply enough to match my own before pointing at his watch.

I don't have time to respond. He's already gone.

And he still hasn't said a single word.

o~oOOo~o

My head is in the clouds all day, replaying every moment. In my mind, I can retrace the shape of his mouth, even more soft-looking and warm up close than it was from an alleyway away; I can see the color of his hair and of his eyes.

What plagues me the most, though, is the way he motioned at everything with his hand.

At lunch, I go to the library, following a hunch. Quickly locating the book that I am looking for, I scan through pages of illustrations and photographs, silently comparing each of them to the picture of him I am holding in my memory.

By the time I put the book down, I am sure.

o~oOOo~o

That night, instead of settling on my bed, I go straight to the window and throw it open wide. He is writing something in a notebook, but his eyes glance up quickly, as if he has been watching the dim patch of light radiating from my room the entire evening.

Most nights, we only acknowledge each other as we move to turn out our lights.

This isn't most nights.

When I catch his eyes on mine, I wave and smile, my chest lightening to see his mouth twist up as well.

And then I try something.

It takes a bit of work, but my shaking hands finally manage to form the symbols I have been practicing all day.

_How are you?_

Even across the distance and through the dim, I can see those eyes light up, and in a movement so fast I can hardly keep up with it, he is at his window as well. As if he knows that I've only just begun to learn, he spells out his letters incredibly slowly.

_G-R-E-A-T, N-O-W. You?_

I squint and check the book laid out in my lap, but I'm pretty sure I have it right. Self-consciously, I brush my hands across my chest.

_Happy._

I wish I had the signs to give him more. To tell him that I am happy because I know his name and the beginning of the secrets behind a language that is all his own.

o~oOOo~o

_How did you know?_

He signs more quickly to me now. Too quickly sometimes, as I am still learning, but after a few weeks of practice, I have my letters and a few of the more common signs mostly down.

_Your hands. When you C-A-U-G-H-T me._

He tips his head back, and I wonder how a boy who cannot hear ever learned to laugh.

We talk for hours each evening now, and while it is frustrating to have to express myself so slowly, every motion of his long, beautiful hands makes me nearly want to burst.

My mother pops her head in just before eleven as always, glancing knowingly between myself and the window across the way. I blush but roll my eyes at her. When I come back from the bathroom, Edward is sitting near the edge of his bed.

_Good night, B-E-L-L-A._

_Good night, E-D-W-A-R-D._

Just before he turns off his light, he makes a quick series of signs, and I cannot follow, but as always I try. He has been making these signs at me every night for the past week, and each time, I try to catch them so I can look them up later.

Tonight, I hold them in my head just a little bit better, and the next day I have the presence of mind to try to find them in my book as I study it during lunch.

When I finally piece the meaning together, the book falls from my lap, my heart soaring and my hands instinctively curling into excited fists.

_You are beautiful when you sleep. _

o~oOOo~o

That night, we sign our goodbyes to each other as if nothing has changed. He is just about to move to his lamp, his hands flying at his more typical speed, but I hold out my own to stop him.

Slowly, painstakingly, I find the words.

_I think you're beautiful, too._

o~oOOo~o

_You're late._

The next night, Edward's light doesn't turn on until nine o'clock, and I have been pacing for ages, wondering if he is alright. It's not as if he can _not_ show up, what with this being his room, and with his still being in high school. But his absence still reminds me that he has a life beyond these walls that we almost share.

I wonder what he does. Who he talks to when I am not perched in the window across the alley from him.

When he finally does burst in, his cheeks are a ruddy pink, his hair just a little more wild than usual, and even across the distance, I can see something bright dancing in his eyes.

_Go to your front door._

My heart races and I tilt my head in an unspoken question, but he only laughs and shakes his head.

_Go._

I give him another suspicious look, but then I am on my feet, racing past my mother and to the front door of our apartment. There's a strange hope in the pit of my stomach, some notion that maybe he will be there somehow.

That for the first time in months I will see him face to face.

Hoping maybe, once more, I can place my hand to his chest and feel his heart race.

I throw open the door in one swift motion, only to find exactly the shades of vivid color that I had been looking for but in an entirely different form. The green of his eyes is there, but in soft, wide leaves; I find the red of his hair in petals that speak of sunshine and of bright beginnings.

And of more than the silent language we have found in the dark.

Amidst the blooms, I find a card, and I scramble to open it, tearing at the envelope with shaking hands, to finally reveal the perfect script inside.

_Go downstairs._

I shout some explanation to my mother without looking back, dashing toward the landing, taking the steps two or three at a time and bursting through the door with such reckless abandon that I almost trip.

Only something solid and warm refuses to let me.

Strong arms wrap around me. Catching me.

When I look up, I find the perfect green and the dancing red I had been hoping for, and better yet, they sit above a smile I know so well. The door slams behind us, but I can't bring myself to care.

For a few long, perfect moments, I simply stand there, basking in the comfort of an embrace I have wanted for so long. He doesn't seem eager to pull away from it either, his eyes trained on mine and his smile growing all the more brilliant with every moment that we hold each other.

When he finally does pull away, I want to be disappointed, but I can't, my eyes struggling to focus on the motion of his hands in the breathless space between our bodies.

_May I kiss you? _

It's hard to pull him down to me fast enough, my head nodding and tears clouding my eyes, my mouth stretched so widely with happiness that I can barely relax it enough to feel the perfect sweetness of his lips brushing softly against mine. Standing there on the sidewalk, we kiss each other five times, and each one is more perfect and tender than the last, until on the fifth our lips are parting, a taste of flesh and boy possessing my senses along with the wet sliding of mouth over mouth.

He breaks the kiss only to place his forehead against my own, those hands that have touched my heart so deeply through all our nights of silent words finally touching my hands. My neck.

My face.

I watch mesmerized as his lips part.

And then, even though it is stilted, the edges of it slightly twisted and strange, he gifts me with the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

The sound of his voice.

"Bella."


End file.
